


Filicide and Harsh Words

by QueenBagelcat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Brotherly Angst, Caring John Winchester, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, No Slash, No Smut, Not A Fix-It, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Temporary Character Death - Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 05:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16212557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBagelcat/pseuds/QueenBagelcat
Summary: Pre-series. Dad calls Sam at Stanford with some devastating news. Sam goes to say goodbye, but things aren't what they seem.  Slightly AU, but mostly canon compliant - nothing in this story changes the show as aired. Rating is for any coarse language.  No slash, no smut, Not a death fic. NOT part of the Brotherhood AU 'verse!  Complete





	1. Chapter 1

John pulled the black truck to a stop behind the abandoned tire warehouse out on Rim Rock Road. All their research suggested that this was where the witch was holed up. She was older and more powerful that the witches John had dealt with in the past and he would have liked more intel, but they would have to make do. He had been chasing her across three different states over the past three weeks, but her body count was rising. There had been three more men killed last week, and tonight he was going to take her out before she could kill anyone else. It was still early, just after 8 pm, but the sun set early in November in Nevada and the location was remote from the town, so he decided there was no point in waiting. John glanced into the passenger seat where his eldest son sat bathed in moonlight. Dean was watching him, alert and ready, waiting for direction.

"Tell me the plan again," John ordered softly.

"I go around front, you take the back. We find the witch, gank her and torch her book and altar." Dean recited, sounding far too casual for John's taste. Just because a witch was human, didn't mean that you could afford to underestimate one. That was a good way to end up dead. And this witch was especially crafty.

"If you find her, don't let her see you. Go for a headshot before she can cast a spell, then make sure she's really dead and torch the book and the body" Dean was nodding, but he still didn't seem concerned. Fighting the urge to send Dean back to the motel and handle this himself, John opened the door and stepped out into the cold. It was only a few degrees above zero tonight. Walking around to the other side, he watched as Dean expertly checked his weapon and loaded the first round.

"Do you have everything?"

Dean flashed a cocky smile and patted the small duffel bag he had slung over one shoulder.

"Salt, lighter fluid, holy water." John knew that Dean was a skilled and experienced hunter. Certainly he'd trained his son to be an excellent soldier, so he could trust Dean to follow orders. But it didn't make him any less uneasy about this hunt. Witches were unpredictable.

"Alright, I'll give you ten minutes to circle the perimeter and gain access. Watch for traps, and stay alert."

"Yes sir," Dean responded and then disappeared effortlessly into the shadows to make his way around the front of building.

John forced himself to count down the full ten minutes before he grabbed his own bag, picked the lock and crept into the rear of the building. Careful to make no sound despite his heavy boots, he slowly made his way towards the set of offices that lined one side of the back of the facility. He was confident that the witch would have her altar set up in one of those rooms, rather than out in the open warehouse area. Of course, he hadn't said as much to Dean. If Dean found out that he'd been sent out front to keep him as far from the witch as possible - well let's just say John knew his son would not be very happy. But that was part of the problem. Dean hadn't been happy in a long time. Oh he put on a good front, but ever since Sam left last year, he'd been different.

At first he'd been really quiet, spending his free time alone and drinking. Then he'd started with that devil-may-care act, all bravado and charm, running around with every girl who would have him. That came to an end this past Spring. John had watched helplessly as Dean got his heartbroken for the first time by that girl Cassie in Ohio. It was a hard, and necessary lesson, this life didn't allow for relationships, but it had been difficult seeing how broken up Dean was about her. Now, although Dean seemed to have his focus back and his head in the game, his eldest seemed restless. Dean followed orders and got the job done with ruthless efficiency, but without Sammy to look out for, Dean was too willing to take risks, to jump out guns blazing with a dangerous disregard for his own safety. John was worried.

Dragging his thoughts back to the hunt, John suppressed a sigh and pushed his concerns for his son to the back of his mind. Redoubling his focus, he felt a change in the air and smelled the faint scent of candles. Even more cautiously than before, he peeked around a corner. The witch was there, lighting candles on her dark altar. It didn't look like she'd begun whatever spell she was setting up for, but with witches you could never be too careful. They may be human, but they were the worst kind of unnatural monster, having made a deal with a demon for their powers. The good thing, is that it was possible to kill them if you could take them by surprise with a well placed shot. John lifted his gun to make the kill when the witch spoke.

"Hello hunter," she spat, turning slightly to look at him before going back to whatever she was doing. "Dammit," he cursed silently in his head. All hope for stealth gone, John stepped from behind the corner, gun still rock steady as he moved cautiously towards her. She continued speaking, completely unconcerned about the gun pointed at her as she continued her preparations.

"You and your partner have been chasing me for a while, haven't you? It's been fun, but it's starting to cramp my style." She turned fully towards him now, a nasty smirk on her pretty face. "So, I've decided to take a little vacation, and thanks to your partner I have everything I need." She gestured with a shiny silver knife towards the bowl on her altar. In the light from the flickering candles, John could see blood staining the blade. His heart jumped in his throat, worried about his son, but he kept his face blank and his gun firmly aimed at her head.

"I needed the blood of an enemy, you see," she said conversationally, laying the knife down and picking up the bowl. "So I trapped your friend and stabbed him in the heart." She smiled with an evil grin and then mockingly looked concerned. "It's a shame, he was such a pretty young man, but if it's any consolation, he died quickly." She extended her other hand towards the bowl and opened her mouth when John pulled the trigger. The bullet stopped short of her, bouncing off some kind of invisible shield to fall to the ground with a soft clink. She giggled at him.

"Really - you thought I wouldn't be prepared for you? Silly man. I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer." John's mind was racing, he needed to kill her quickly before she cast her spell. He had no apprehension about whatever suffering she had planned for him, but he needed to check on his son. Glancing at her altar he had an idea.

Once again, she raised her hand to drop the ingredients into the bowl, but before she could speak, John fired a second time. His slug hit the center of the large book sitting propped on her altar. It was a bit of a guess, but most witches bind themselves to their demon partners through their grimoire or spell book, so he was hoping hurting the book would hurt her. It must of worked because she dropped the metal bowl with a clang, and clutched at her chest. Without stopping to think, John shot her, his bullet making a neat hole in her forehead. As her body fell, the candles flared wildly and then went out as a sulphur laced wind swept through the room. The hair on his arms was standing up from the feeling of evil, but nothing more happened.

Still alert and watchful, John approached her body with caution. Witches, by definition, had a lot of tricks up their sleeves, and she could still be warded. He stood over her body and empties another few rounds into her head and torso. Confident that she was dead for the moment, his worry for Dean surged. Not taking his eyes off the witch's body, he pulled out his phone and dialed Dean. There was no answer and the call went to voicemail. For a brief moment he hesitated, should he go look for his son, or finish the job in front of him?

He bit down on his rising fear for his boy. It was possible that, despite the multiple bullets in her, that this was a ruse, so he couldn't take a chance. John had to hope that Dean simply had his phone on silent for the hunt. Working as quickly as possible he dragged the bloody body into a clear area on the concrete floor. He grabbed the witch's spell book and some of the more evil objects from her altar and dumped them on top of her. A quick search around found some broken crates that he added to the pile, then digging some salt and lighter fluid out of his bag, he lit her body on fire. Staying only long enough to be sure that the witch was fully engulfed and that the fire wasn't going to spread, John moved off in search of Dean.

The warehouse was large, but it had been mostly cleared out when it was abandoned, so there wasn't much to see once John moved through the door separating the offices in the back from the main space. There were just a few enormous, but empty shelves, some broken crates and piles of cardboard, but otherwise not a lot to see. The almost full moon cast a decent amount of light into the cavernous space through a couple of well placed skylights. John stuck to the shadows around the perimeter of the room but his rising sense of panic had fractured his normal vigilance. He had yet to reach Dean by phone and he had searched more than half of the warehouse space without finding his son. He just needed to lay eyes on Dean, sooner rather than later.

Despite the fact that the witch was dead, John kept his gun in hand as he broke one of his own rules and called Dean's name in a harsh whisper. John forced himself to keep a steady and efficient pace as he cleared the building. There was probably a perfectly good reason why he hadn't found or heard from Dean. But so help him, if the kid was goofing around somewhere, John was going to tear a strip off of him that Dean wouldn't soon forget.

Fifteen minutes later and his search of the warehouse was complete. Dean was still missing. He jogged back through the empty building. Checking that the witch and her paraphernalia were still contained and burning, John exited, praying to Mary that he'd find their son safe and sound in the warming vehicle. As he strode towards the hulking black truck, John strained to see a Dean shaped silhouette against the shadows. The passenger door of the truck was open, but as he came around the vehicle, sprawled in the dirt beside the tire was a familiar body. His heart almost stopped.

"No, no, no, no, please no…," John heard himself say, his voice thick with fear and emotion. He closed the gap between them in a few strides and dropped to his knees, hands hovering over his son. Dean was lying in a sticky pool of blood, his shirt was soaked through from a gaping wound on his chest. John knew instinctively that no one could lose that much blood and still be alive, but his trembling fingers looked for a pulse anyway. The skin on Dean's neck already felt the same temperature as the cold night air. Dean was face up on the ground, his eyes open and lifeless, staring up at the stars. The witch must have surprised him as he was getting into the truck because his battered, old leather jacket that Dean loved so much was sitting on the seat. John reverently closed his son's eyes, then pulled Dean up by the shoulders and hauled his boy to his chest. Dean's head lolled against his shoulder and John sat in the dirt, stroking his eldest son's hair while tears ran down his cheeks and soaked into the collar of Dean's shirt.

John had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dirt sobbing, but his eyes were swollen, his hands were frozen and his back hurt. Of course this was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. It had been a long time since he had held his son so tenderly. John knew he wasn't an affectionate man. Only Mary had been able to bring out his softer side. "Oh God...Mary. I'm so sorry," thought John brokenly. He'd let Dean, Mary's first born, die and driven away Sam her baby, with his single minded obsession and stubbornness. How could he have let this happen? He had lost his whole family, the only thing in his life worth a damn. The pain was crushing, and briefly John wished he was dead too. But he couldn't do that to Sam. Maybe things weren't in a great place with his rebellious son, but he couldn't leave him an orphan, unprotected and alone. Thinking of Sam, John knew he needed to move, to get Dean back to the motel and then call Sammy. Although John wasn't sure how he was going to face him, Sam deserved a chance to say goodbye to his brother.

Pushing himself awkwardly to his feet, John carried Dean's body to the truck. With a gentleness that would have shocked Dean had he been alive to see it, John tucked his precious cargo into the passenger seat. Walking around the congealing pool of his son's blood, John got into the truck and headed back to the motel.


	2. Bad News

Sam stood and stretched his back as the credits ran on the movie. He put the empty beer bottles on the counter while Brady cleaned up the remains of the pizza they'd shared. Brady's apartment was nice, way nicer than the cramped dorm room Sam shared with Steve. Brady had a big TV, his own kitchen, and an extremely comfy sofa. Sam stretched again and rolled his shoulders. Comfy, but apparently the sofa was way too soft to spend a full two hours slouching on and his back ached a bit.

"Thanks Brady, I appreciate you letting me hang out, I know it's a weeknight," Sam offered. Brady was pre-med, so his academic workload was even more taxing than Sam's.

"Don't worry about it Sam." Brady smiled. "Even you can't study 100% of the time."

Sam had to smile back. His reputation for all work - no play was well earned. Normally at 10:00 pm on a Wednesday, Sam would have just gotten back to his room after work and would take an hour or two to study before bed. But tonight, he'd switched shifts with Mandy, so he was able to have a rare night off just to relax and spend some time with one of his best friends.

It was still a weird feeling to have friends. He'd never really had many over the years. They had moved around constantly, and there was so much he had to hide and lie about. It hadn't seemed worth it to try and build friendships only to have to leave them behind in a few weeks. For most of his life he'd only had Dean. His brother had always been his best and only friend, the one constant presence during their unsettled childhood. And there had been a time when Sam hadn't wanted or needed anyone other than Dean. He looked up to his big brother so much. It had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done, to leave him behind to come to college. But, as much as he loved Dean, Sam wanted more. He wanted school and friends and a safe, normal future. Dean only wanted to hunt. It hurt to realize that he and Dean wanted two different things in life, but he was done trying to be something he wasn't.

"Hey man, you want another beer?" Brady asked, sticking his head out of the fridge. Brady's apartment definitely had a lot more amenities than Sam's dorm room, including a full size fridge and more importantly some actual peace and quiet. His friend very kindly let Sam hang out or even come over to study when the noisy dorm got rowdy. One of the perks of having wealthy parents. Despite being rich, Brady never looked down on Sam or made him feel badly because he was constantly broke. That was one of the many reasons that they were friends. Brady treated Sam like he was just a normal guy.

"Hey – earth to Sam!" Brady called, waggling a bottle in his direction.

"Oh, sorry man. Nah, I'm good, I still have to bike home and I don't want to end up in a ditch like Don," Sam said, declining the beer, but taking the bottle of water Brady offered.

"Dude, Don was high as a kite when he crashed his ride that time." A grin broke across Brady's face and Sam had to smile back. "Of course Don is flying high most of the time anyway, which is why he's been here 3 years and is still a freshman." Both men laughed. Don was famous for exactly 3 things, his seemingly endless supply of pot, his generous laid back nature, and the fact that his dad's seat on the Board of Trustees kept him in school despite his significant lack of grades or progress.

"So, Sam. Thanksgiving is coming up in a couple of weeks. I'm heading home for the long weekend and I wondered if you wanted to come with me? Assuming you're not going to go be with your family?" Brady sipped on his beer and casually leaned against the counter. Sam was tempted. The idea of a weekend of luxury, great food and an actual home sounded awesome. But Sam shook his head, ignoring the subtle probe about his family. Brady knew he had a father and brother, but not much more.

"I appreciate it man, but I've picked up some extra shifts at work that weekend." Sam took a swig of his water. He needed the money and his co-workers wanted to go home for the holiday. It was a win-win.

Just then, Sam's cell phone rang. Sam's phone was his one extravagance, it was his only connection to his previous life, and to his brother. The first few months here had been rough. He'd come to college looking for normal and quickly realized that being a poor scholarship student among his mostly wealthy classmates made him more of a freak in some ways than he had been at any of the dozens of high schools he had attended. He'd called Dean pretty often at first, at least when his brother had coverage and wasn't on a hunt. But now that Sam had made friends and built a life for himself, it was usually his brother calling him, although not normally so late on a weeknight.

"Hey Dean," Sam answered, moving away from Brady with an apologetic smile.

"Sam…. It's Dad." Sam was shocked. Since the screaming fight he'd had with Dad the day he'd left, he hadn't heard from his father in well over a year. His heart stuttered in his chest. Something was terribly wrong if Dad was calling him on Dean's phone. Was this the call he'd always been afraid to get?

"Where's Dean?" Sam tried to keep the tremble out of his voice, but he could hear the barely controlled panic, so he knew that Dad could too. Brady looked up in curiosity, but Sam ignored him, too focused on his Dad's next words to pay attention to his friend. Sam heard Dad clear his throat roughly.

"Sam…" Dad's voice broke in a way Sam had never heard before. The man was practically a robot, he was so in control. "No, no, no, no," he prayed silently under his breath as he heard his Dad swallow and try again.

"Your brother, Sam….he's…. Dean didn't make it."

And just like that, the world ended. Standing in Brady's fancy apartment, with a water bottle in one hand and a phone in the other, Sam's world literally stopped. He couldn't breathe. His legs went weak and Sam had to slump against the back of the sofa to keep upright. Outside the window, he saw the lights of Palo Alto. Sam could hear people talking as they walked down the hall outside the door. How could that possible if Dean was gone? How could anything exist without Dean? Sam closed his eyes and prayed that this was all a horrible nightmare.

"What happened?" Sam managed to squeak out the question even though his chest felt heavy and his throat three sizes too small. His body felt numb as he tried to remember how to speak.

"Does it matter?" Dad's voice was tired, full of gravel, his words tumbling out roughly as if it was all he could do to force them past his lips. "If you want to say goodbye, we're in Winnemucca, NV. I'll text you the address." And then Dad ended the call.

Sam sat there, propped against the sofa. He stared at the phone in his hand, feeling the buzz of the text, but not seeing the words. From what seems like a long distance away, Sam heard his name and felt Brady's hand on his arm.

"Sam, are you okay?" Brady's words were fuzzy, but they made their way into Sam's brain and he took a couple of deep breaths. If the world had stopped at his Dad's words, it leapt into fast forward at Brady's.

"It's my brother...he...I, uh. I have to go." Sam knew that he wasn't making sense. His mind was racing and he stood, phone and bottle still in his hands. He began walking in aimless circles, looking around for his backpack with unseeing eyes.

"I have to go," he repeated more forcefully, feeling trapped and panicked. He had to get to Dean. He had to make this untrue.

"Hey, hey, slow down," said Brady in a calm voice. "Where do you need to go?" Sam thought that was a great question and dug through his whirling brain for an answer. Nevada! He had to get to Nevada. He began to plan scenarios in his head. He couldn't bike to Nevada, it would take too long. Maybe a bus? He'd need to scrounge up enough money for a ticket and then get to the station. But there might not be a bus until tomorrow. That was too late. Trying to live a normal life meant giving up the more criminal aspects of his previous life, but he could still steal a car if he had to. Brady's hand on his arm was the only reason Sam wasn't already out the door. His friend called his name to get his attention.

"Sam?" Brady looked concerned at his inability to answer the question. Sam forced himself to calm down a little.

"Uh, I need to get to Nevada. I've got to go grab my things and get to the bus station…find out if there's a bus tonight" he trailed off. What was he going to do if Dean were really dead? He felt frantic and frozen at the same time. Sam looked at Brady whose hand was still on his arm. His friend's face softened in sympathy and suddenly a wave of emotion hit Sam and tears sprung into his eyes. It was usually Dean that looked at him with that kind of compassion. Dean...no, no, no, you can't be dead. Dad has to be wrong. Brady not so gently shook him, snapping him back from his spiraling thoughts.

"You're not getting on some bus, Sam." Brady was firm. "You're going to take my car." A weird hope burst through Sam. If he could just get to Dean he was sure that things were going to be okay, that this would all turn out to be a horrible mistake or some cruel joke. He found himself nodding. Brady took the water bottle from his grip, opened it then shoved it back into his hand. "Drink this, Sam," he said as he plucked a set of keys from a bowl on the coffee table. Sam took a sip of the soothing water and watched, still paralyzed for the moment. Brady produced Sam's backpack from somewhere and handed it to him, then with a hand on Sam's elbow, ushered them out of the door and down to the parking lot.

It was just after 11:00 pm when he dropped Brady back at his apartment, but Sam felt like hours had passed since his phone call from Dad, and he was chomping at the bit to get going. He'd thrown his stuff together and locked up his bike, now there was nothing to do but drive. Brady leaned into the open drivers window.

"Are you sure you don't need me to go with you?," he asked. Sam considered the offer for a brief moment, but he had to do this alone. He had to get to Dean.

"Thanks, but I'm good," Sam replied even as he anxiously drummed his fingers on the leather wrapped steering wheel. Brady shot a glance at his fidgeting hands, but then gently slapped the side of the SUV and stepped back.

"Ok. Be safe and good luck with your brother." Brady gave a half wave and then turned to go back into his building. Sam just gave him a nod and put the car in drive, pulling out of the visitors parking and towards Nevada.


	3. Help from a Friend

John rested his forehead against the phone in his hands, Dean's phone. He hadn't been certain if Sam would pick up if he'd called from his own phone. The tears he had been trying to hold back during the call dripped off his face and onto the table top. He hadn't planned to be so short with Sam, but once he'd heard his son's voice on the line, another wave of grief had crashed over him and he wanted to keep it together for Sammy.

Dean was dead. He could barely believe it, even with his boy's body lying on the bed, not 5 feet away from where he sat at the stained and chipped table. John wanted to scream, to slam his fist into the wall until the pain in his hand matched the pain in his heart. He wanted to drink. To pour whiskey down his throat until he couldn't think, until he could pretend that this was all a horrible nightmare that he would wake up from with a crushing headache and churning stomach. But it wasn't a nightmare and he didn't want to be drunk when Sam arrived.

When Mary had died, John had turned to drinking to cope. Glancing at the bed, John remembered Dean as a small child. More than once his five year old had to pick up the pieces when he was busy drowning in booze and sorrow. It wasn't fair, but he'd come to count on Dean to take care of him and Sam. His eldest was the glue that kept John together in those first few years on the road, and the core of their little family. Without Dean… John found himself hyperventilating and he forced himself to slow his breathing. He dragged a sleeve across his burning eyes, then put Dean's phone on the table next to the bloodstained wallet, and battered wrist watch he had taken from his son as he cleaned him up. He had no idea if Sam would want his brother's things, but if he did, he could have them.

John picked up his own phone and stared at it for a minute. Was there someone else he should call? Immediately he thought of Bobby Singer. He wasn't a fool, John knew that despite their falling out, the old hunter would want to know. But John couldn't bring himself to break another heart tonight with bad news. He'd call Pastor Jim and have him inform Bobby. John dialed the rectory number, but it went to voicemail and he hung up. If the Pastor was out at this hour, then he was either on a hunt, or tending to one of his flock. Maybe he was a coward, but John didn't think he could leave news like this in a message without breaking down.

There was nothing to do now but wait until Sam got here. Like that was going to go well. His boys were so close, it was almost impossible to think of one without the other. Sam was going to blame him for Dean's death and John knew he couldn't bear the anger and rejection he would see in Sam's face. Because if Sam hated him already for the hurtful words he'd shouted at his son the last time they'd been together, he would never forgive John for letting Dean get killed. John couldn't take back what he'd said the night Sam had left. Honestly, he'd never really believed that Sam would go and leave Dean behind. Still, he regretted the ultimatum he'd made with all his heart and ever since, he'd tried to respect Sam's decision. Well now, he'd failed both brothers. John sighed and wiped the back of his hand across his wet face. As much as John longed to see Sammy, he knew his son wasn't going to be happy to see him. He needed help, someone to be there for Sam and to keep them tearing each other apart in their grief.

Scratching at his three day old scruff, John found and dialed another number. It rang a few times, but then a click and the sound of loud music, conversation and muffled cursing let John know that his call had been answered.

"This better be good," a grumpy voice answered.

"Hey Caleb." John waited as the younger man walked out of the bar he'd been in to take the call. Slowly the background noise disappeared and all he heard was his friend's soft breathing.

"Who's this?," Caleb asked, still sounding cranky.

"It's John Winchester."

"John? What's wrong?" Compassion and fear were evident in Caleb's tone. Perhaps he shouldn't have called if Caleb was able to pick up on his distress so quickly. Or maybe that's why it was a smart idea. John cleared his throat and tried to answer his friend. God damn it was nice to hear a friendly voice.

"It's Dean, Caleb, he's…." John couldn't get the words out to continue. His throat threatened to close up completely. He clenched the phone tightly as he roughly breathed in and out, trying to gain back his control.

"Where are you John? I'll come to you." The crunch of boots on gravel and the slam of a car door told John than his friend was on his way. He choked out his location. "Ok John, I'm not far, I'll be there in a couple of hours." John could hear the roar of Caleb's engine.

"Thanks," was all he was able to say. Hanging up, he dropped the phone onto the table. Caleb was coming and he could help comfort Sam. Dashing the back of his hand across his face, John realized he was crying again. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, and now he was weeping every five seconds like a leaky pipe. "I'm so sorry Mary," John whispered into the unnatural stillness of the room. He buried his face in his arms and let the violent sobs come. Dean was dead, so John let himself cry.

xxxxxxxx

Jerking upright, John tried to place the sound that had jolted him awake. His eyes were swollen, his throat felt like sandpaper and his face was sore where it had been pressed against the rough canvas of his jacket sleeve. He didn't remember falling asleep at the table, head in his arms, but obviously he had. A quiet knock at the door drove John to his feet. Ignoring the stiffness in his back, he picked up his gun from the table and went to the door. A glance at the clock on the night table told him it was 2:37 am.

"John, it's me, Caleb" came a voice through the thin wood of the motel door.

Opening the door carefully, John recognized his friend and uncocked his gun. He tucked it into a pocket as he stepped back to let Caleb in the room. The younger man peered into his face.

"Geez John, you look like hammered crap. What's going on?" At this angle John could see the sheet clad body on the bed over Caleb's shoulder. The pain hit hard again, and he felt his face crumple, so he could only gesture in that direction. Not wanting to see the accusation in Caleb's eyes, John quickly went to the tiny bathroom to splash some water on his face. Once the cold water had washed away some of the salty tear tracks from his face, John leaned against the door frame. Caleb was kneeling beside the bed, having folded the sheet back from Dean's face. Then he placed a hand on Dean's cold cheek and hung his head.

"God dammit, Dean," Caleb sighed, just loud enough for John to hear from his spot in the bathroom doorway. The younger hunter hung his head, then after a moment, reverently folded the sheet back up to cover Dean's face and patted the sheet clad chest before pushing to his feet. Caleb went and sat heavily in the other chair at the table. John returned to his own place. The tension in Caleb's jaw told him that the younger hunter was fighting for control. Figuring he needed at least a little liquid courage, John poured whiskey into two plastic motel tumblers and handed one across the table.

"It was a witch, an old one," John said, answering Caleb's unasked question. "Dean and I split up, but by the time I found her, she'd already got to him." Guilt flooded John. "It's my fault, Caleb. I got him killed. I should have ordered him to hang back. I should have never let Dean go off by himself." It was his job to look after his boy, and he'd failed. John dragged a hand across his face and took a drink. His throat was raw from crying and the alcohol scorched all the way down, but he was glad for the punishment.

"Come on John," Caleb said leaning back in his chair to sip his drink. "I know you. You had this job planned out to the nth degree. You never go in half cocked or unprepared, so there's no way this was your fault." The absolution felt good, but John knew he didn't deserve it. He just shook his head, unable to find the words to describe how he had failed his son….his sons plural actually.

"Sammy's on his way," John said with only a small crack in his words. He had let his sons down, but he was damned if he was going to cry again. Another swallow of the whiskey and the burn in his throat matched the burning in his eyes. He was done crying. He had to man up and face this, and do what he could for his remaining sons. For Sam that likely meant staying the hell out of his life as much as possible. For Adam...well maybe with his youngest he still had a shot. So far he'd been able to keep the kid ignorant about hunting, and away from this life. It was the only way to keep Adam and his mother out of danger, and keeping the son he hadn't known about for 12 years safe might be the only thing of value he could do for the kid. A fleeting regret that Adam would never meet Dean passed through John's mind, almost tipping him back into tears.

"So, did you tell Sam what happened?" Caleb's question drew John's focus away from his whirling thoughts.

"No, but it doesn't matter. Sam's never going to forgive me for getting Dean killed." He tossed back another gulp of pain. "I said some things I wish I hadn't when Sammy left for school and…" John struggled again to find words, but it was too exhausting to try and explain. "He'll be here soon." Caleb would see for himself the way Sam hated him. Until then, John wanted a distraction. It was hard to think about anything else with his dead son in the room, but he was determined not to break down again - to weather whatever Sam threw his way without complaint or anger. He had a few hours to pull himself back together. He coughed down the last of his whiskey and pointedly pushed his cup away.

"So, tell me what were you hunting," John asked. Caleb began talking and John forced himself to listen.


	4. Memories

His eyes were gritty from focusing on the road and Sam rubbed them with a knuckle before slurping the last of the coffee he'd picked up when he'd stopped for gas. The one advantage of driving all night is that he made good time. There was little traffic on the highway and he was able to get some impressive speed out of the borrowed SUV. Winnemucca was only about 40 minutes away and it wasn't even 6:00 am yet. Of course, the closer he got to the motel, the more anxious he was getting.

Despite the queasy feeling in his stomach, he was praying that Dad's phone call had just been some kind of sick tactic to get him to come back to hunting. Dad was certainly capable of being that cruel if he wanted. Dean was probably fine, sent somewhere by Dad for a stupid training exercise or something. Sam wanted so much to believe that his brother was waiting for him at the motel with a grin on his face and an apology for Dad's behaviour on his lips. But what if it was true? Sam's gut clenched again at the thought and a burst of rage made his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. If Dean was dead…then it was Dad's fault. Dad had spent Dean's entire life grooming him to be the perfect hunter. Dean had never had a chance to pursue his own life.

When Sam left for Stanford he had intended to change that, to ask Dean to come with him. His thoughts raced back to that night.

xxxxxxx

The door of the house the little family was squatting in had slammed with a force that shook flakes of paint off the siding. Sam slung the duffel bag that held all his worldly possessions forcefully over one shoulder and started walking. The night was dark and damp, but the heat of his anger kept him warm as he marched towards the highway. Dad's last words rang in his ears.

"Fine! I guess some fancy school is more important to you than this family. So go! Get out! But if you're going, then you better stay gone!" Dad had shouted, his face red and his eyes dark.

Dad was so infuriating, the man never listened to him. Always throwing orders around, especially to Dean. Acting like we're his soldiers rather than his sons. Sam snorted in disgust at his own thoughts. The rage that coursed through Sam muffled the pain and fear of storming away from everything he'd ever known. It wasn't until he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala pull up behind him that he'd even thought about Dean. Sam stopped when the car came beside him, but he refused to look at his brother. Dean hadn't said a single word during the argument, just stood there watching. He was always following Dad's orders, never standing up to their father. Dad had probably sent him to bring him back. Dean leaned over and opened the passenger door.

"Get in," he said quietly. Dean's soft request stalled Sam who had been ready to begin shouting again. For a long moment he wasn't sure if he could get into the car, but one look at Dean's face and he dumped his bags into the back seat and slid into his usual place at shotgun.

"I'm going Dean, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" Sam may be willing to accept a ride, but he was damned if he was going to let his brother try and talk him out of his decision.

"I know," Dean said, still in that quiet voice. Sam glanced over as Dean just stared through the windshield, the car still in park. "Sam," he began with a sigh, "Dad...he just…" Sam's fury reignited.

"Don't you dare try and defend him! Don't you dare!" Sam's roar was too loud in the small space and he tried to lower his voice. "I tried to talk to him, Dean, I really did. But there's just no talking to the man. He treats me like some spoiled little kid running away to join the circus, but I'm going to college - a really good college. I'm going to build a future - one that isn't full of blood and death and monsters."

"I know," Dean said again with another sigh. His brother looked at him. His face was partially shrouded by the shadows, but Dean looked sad in the darkness. "Where do you want me to take you?" Dean's calmness punched through Sam's anger and he felt himself deflating with a sigh of his own.

"To the bus station. There's a midnight bus to Sacramento." Sam collapsed back into the seat, exhausted from the emotions of the night. More than anything he wanted to get away from Dad, and their life of pain and horror and death. And he wanted Dean with him, wanted to start a new life together with his brother, give Dean the chance to become something - anything other than a hunter. He tried to find the words that would convince Dean to come with him as he watched the streetlights slide by the passenger window.

Less than 20 minutes later, Sam hadn't figured out what he wanted to say. He looked across at Dean as they pulled into the bus station. The place was quiet at this time of night, a sleepy security guard only vaguely interested as the Impala turned into the lot. When Dean turned the car off, the silence grew thick around them. And that's when it hit Sam. He was going to get on a bus, travel over 1,000 miles to Palo Alto and he was going to be completely alone for maybe the first time in his life. There was a certain thrill to be finally pursuing his dreams, but one look at Dean made him want to cry. He had no idea when or if he would see his brother again. Sam felt himself desperate for Dean's reassurance, that they could do this together, that he wouldn't have to be alone.

"Dean -," he began, but the older man cut him off. His big brother stuck a hand into his pocket and held out a wad of cash.

"Here, take it," Dean said.

Sam was both touched and offended. That had to be the earnings from more than a few weeks of hustling pool. Dean wasn't stupid, he must have known this day was coming and had saved the money to give to him. Sam too had been saving hard for the past year and he had a several hundred dollars buried deep inside his duffel.

"Thanks, but I'm okay." Sam didn't want to owe his brother anymore than he already did.

"Don't be an idiot, take it," Dean said more forcefully, shoving it against Sam's chest. Sam huffed in frustration, but took the money, tucking it into a secure inside pocket of his jacket.

"Thanks," he said grudgingly. Sam opened his mouth again to ask Dean to come to California with him, but his brother's next words stopped him.

"I wish I could take you all the way to Palo Alto, but I've got to get back to Dad. We're leaving tomorrow for a job in Arkansas." Dean sounded tired and his voice was husky with true regret, but Sam's temper flared again.

"Sure...we both know what Dad really cares about." Even to his own ears, Sam sounded like a whiny brat, but he couldn't help it. If Dean was going to pick Dad over him, he wasn't going to beg. Dean had make his choice. He pushed open the passenger door with some aggression and reached into the back seat for his gear. A hand shot out and gripped his shoulder. Sam paused, but refused to look at Dean.

"Sammy, I…" Dean cleared his throat. "You've got this, I know you do. But...uh, if you need anything, anything at all, you call alright?" There was a tremor in his brother's voice that Sam had never heard before. He finally looked over at Dean, and met his eyes which sparkled wetly in the lights from the station. Warm fingers squeezed his shoulder one last time before Dean turned away and put his hands back on the steering wheel. "Be safe, Sam."

With that, Sam pulled his bags over the seat back and got out of the car. He closed the door with a final thud and walked to the station. It took a great deal of willpower, but he didn't look back until he was at the door. Only when he was in the brightly lit station, did he turn and watch the gleaming shadow that was the Impala, turn out of the parking lot and disappear into the darkness.

xxxxxxx

A short honk of a horn startled Sam out of his thoughts and he realized that he was stopped at a green light in Winnemucca with an impatient early morning driver behind him. He waved an apology and made the turn. Sam could see the sign for the Country Hearth Inn farther down the main drag. In just another couple of minutes, he pulled into the parking lot. His father's big black truck was parked at the end of the row and beside it, his brother's beloved Impala. The sun was just rising, but the morning was misty, cold and damp. Sam brought the SUV to a stop across the lot and gathered himself. There was no way he was ready. If Dean was really gone...well Sam had no idea how to process even the concept of that. And his Dad...he was still so angry at the man. Reluctantly, Sam turned off the car and climbed out.

As if his Dad had heard his thoughts, his father stood, framed in the open motel door waiting for him. Sam approached warily. He hadn't seen his Dad since the night he'd left for Stanford. Dad looked older, he was unshaven, and his dark beard was shot with grey that hadn't been there last year. His clothes were rumpled and slept in, and his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot. The man who in his memory was always stoic and unyielding, the larger than life soldier, seemed smaller, diminished somehow.

Sam felt a sluggish sense of comfort in seeing Dad, after a long and agonizing night. It was unexpected, but a small part of him wanted to feel Dad's strong arms wrapped around him again. But then the warm feelings were wiped away violently by the sight of an open bottle of whisky in his father's hand. Sam could feel his jaw clench. Anger and hurt crashed through him and he wanted to throw a punch, but instead he clenched his fist in the pocket of his jacket and kept his cool. His father stepped out of the way of the door.

"Hi Sam," he said softly. Sam paused in front of him, too angry to do more than meet Dad's eyes, with a hard look. As they stared at each other for a moment, he could see flashes of emotion cross Dad's face, emotions that he didn't remember ever seeing in his father. Guilt, sorrow, pain. Dean could always read Dad, but Sam had never seen much but anger and disappointment before in his father's face.

"Where's Dean," Sam said, unable to bring himself to greet his Dad like it was any old day, as if his year in college has just been a vacation. With a gruff clearing of his throat and a stiff nod, the stoic soldier's mask slid into position on Dad's face and he simply pointed into the room. Sam stepped past his father and the older man followed, closing the door behind them.


	5. Goodbye Denial

The room was dark, gloomy with the lack of light and the grey day outside the closed curtains. Still, Sam's eyes were drawn to the draped figure on the bed. His breath caught in his chest and he felt like he was going to black out. Sam's legs trembled as he walked over to the bed. He switched on the lamp on the night table. The light seemed harsh and out of place as it illuminated both the blood stains on the sheet and Sam's worst nightmare. He sunk to his knees, not sure if his legs could hold him anyway.

"No...oh, Dean," Sam moaned as he reached out with a shaky hand to turn down the cloth covering the body's face. Dean's face. His skin was bloodless and grey, his freckles in stark contrast to his ashen skin. The muscles had begun to tighten giving Dean a vaguely angry look that seemed out of place with how Sam remembered his brother. In Sam's memory, Dean was always smiling, a spark of mischief in his green eyes even as they shone with life and energy. Sam felt every fiber in his heart reject what he was seeing, even as his brain scrambled to comprehend it.

With the tips of his fingers, Sam found Dean's arm under the sheet. He gently pulled the sheet away from his hand, his vision blurred with unshed tears. Dean's knuckles showed splits and bruises from a recent fight. He wanted to clean and bandage Dean's hands as he had so many times as a child, but these wounds would never get a chance to heal. Sam held his brother's hand one last time, but it didn't feel like Dean. His hand was rigid and stiff, indistinguishable from room temperature. It felt like death and it broke Sam's heart. Bowing his head, he tucked the sheet back around Dean and rocked back onto his heels. His brother was truly dead and gone. Dean really was dead. The tears that Sam had been staving off since the long night's drive had begun, leaked down his face and dripped onto the sheet.

Sam dragged the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. Dad was standing by the table behind him, and Sam could hear his ragged breathing. A swell of icy rage drove Sam to his feet, and towards his father. How could Dad just stand there? This was his fault - if it wasn't for him and his stupid vendetta Dean would be alive.

"What the hell happened?," Sam ground out between clenched teeth. Dad took a swig from the bottle still in his hand and Sam's fury ratcheted higher. "Where were you?" They were standing so close now that when Dad opened his mouth to answer, Sam could smell the liquor on his breath. "Were you drunk?," he spat at his father, disgust dripping from every word. At that his father finally made eye contact, his jaw clenched in anger. Now there was the Dad that Sam recognized.

"No! Of course not! Never!" Sam have a short snort of disbelief. "Do you think I wanted this to happen?," Dad barked taking half a step back. Sam balled his fists every muscle taut. He was so angry, he was shaking.

"You wanna know what I think?," Sam hissed letting loose every ounce of venom he'd been holding on to for years. "I think you were drinking. I think that, just like always, you were so focused on the goddamned job that you didn't give a crap about Dean." He waved his arm at the bed. Sam could feel a heated flush rising up his neck, his tears still streaming. "I think that you're a selfish bastard and you got Dean killed!" Sam was shouting now, blood pumping and chest heaving. He was right in Dad's face, itching to take a swing if his father dared deny his accusation. But Dad just stared at him sadly.

Sam barely heard his whispered "I know," before Dad turned and walked out the door. Going to follow him, drag him back, Sam found his exit blocked and a hand on his chest.

"Hey buddy, let's take it down a notch," Caleb said gently.

"Caleb?," Sam said, slightly shocked to recognize the hunter. "What are you doing here?"

"Your Dad called me, Sam." He glanced over his shoulder, presumably in the direction Dad had gone. "I know you're hurting right now, but..." Sam shrugged off Caleb's hand.

"Don't." Sam wasn't in the mood for anyone to defend John Winchester right now. Caleb nodded with a soft smile.

"Why don't we go back to my room and have a cup of coffee or something?" While he talked Caleb lightly tugged on Sam's arm. With a last glance at the body on the bed, Sam allowed himself to be ushered out of the room into one a few doors down. As suddenly as it had come, all the anger drained out of him leaving him exhausted, wrung out and heartsick. Pulling out a chair, Caleb gently shoved him at the table. Sam sat down and put his forehead in his hands, tears flowing even harder.

"I should have been here, Caleb." Sam moaned, shaking his head in his hands. "I should have never had left. Dean wouldn't be dead if I had been here watching his back instead of farting around at school."

"Hey, come on Sam, you don't know that." Caleb put a cup of coffee in front of him and Sam picked it up, mostly to have something to do with his hands, then out of any real interest in more caffeine. The young hunter across from him was one of the few members of the hunting world that Sam trusted. Only a handful of years older than Dean, Caleb had proven himself a true friend to the Winchester family over the years.

Sam took a sip, but the liquid hit his stomach like a shot of acid and he put the cup down. That's when he noticed the items sitting on the little table. They were Dean's. Wiping his eyes, he reached out and with a tentative finger poked at the keys to the Impala. The car was his brother's pride and joy. Sam could remember how over the moon Dean had been when his father had given him the sleek black vehicle. In some ways during their messed up childhood, the car was the closest thing they had to a home and Dean protected and loved it with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Vaguely he wondered what would happen to the Impala now, but his brain refused to think about the future right now.

Sam skipped over the cell phone. It was a just a tool, like a gun or a knife and there was nothing about it that made it his brother's. Then he picked up Dean's wallet. Like most of what they owned, it was pretty worn, the edges rounded from being shoved into jean pockets. Flipping it open, at first there wasn't much to see. A couple of different driver's licenses with fake names, a few scammed credit cards, some crumpled bills and a couple of photographs.

Sam pulled out one picture to find his own face staring back at him. The photo had been taken two years ago at the first of the three high schools he'd attended for his senior year. In the photo he looked sullen and unhappy, likely because they were moving again. He had no idea that Dean had it, much less that he carried it around with him. It figured that in the photo his big brother remembered him by, he looked like a petulant teenager. Sam had been such a brat, especially during his last year with Dad and Dean. But, he had always thought that there would be time to make it up to his brother.

The second picture was one that Sam had seen before, a faded snapshot of Mom with her arms wrapped around a 4 year old Dean. Tears sprung into his eyes again but despite his grief and fatigue, Sam found himself smiling wetly. He ran a fingertip across the photo. "Tell Mom I say Hi," he whispered to the image of his dead family. He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and put the photos back in Dean's wallet. Caleb stood and clapped a solid hand against Sam's shoulder.

"I'm gonna go check on John," Caleb said quietly, his words full of compassion, before he left the room with final squeeze.

Sam stood up too and stretched his back. Going into the bathroom, he relieved himself, blew his nose and washed his hands. A quick look in the mirror showed his red and swollen eyes so he splashed some cold water on his face. Clutching the sides of the sink, Sam closed his eyes unable to decide what to do next. He thought about calling Brady, to let his friend how that he had arrived safely, but it seemed like too much effort. His life in Palo Alto seemed like a fantasy, a brief respite from the horrors of his childhood. What was the point? He'd tried to escape his old life, but here he was, standing in a crappy motel room just like always.

Sam had been up for over 24 hours at this point and he felt like all he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe he'd wake up and this would all be a terrible dream. One of the beds in the room was wrinkled, as if Caleb had caught a few hours of rest lying on the covers. The other bed had a familiar leather coat draped across it. Sam walked over and picked it up. The familiar scent of leather, smoke and gun solvent hit his nose and his face crumpled, lip trembling like a baby. The jacket smelled like Dean. It smelled like home and safety and love. The loss of his brother smashed into him like a runaway train. Clutching the coat to his face Sam's knees went weak and he sat heavily at the end of the bed. He had no idea how he could have any tears left to cry, but they poured down his face anyway as he sobbed into the lining of Dean's coat.


	6. Ties that Bind

The whiskey no longer burned going down which told John that it was time to stop. The alcohol wasn't really helping much anyway and it certainly pissed off Sam. He had been expecting Sam's anger. It seemed like the kid had been angry at him forever. Of course this time it was well deserved. He had gotten Dean killed. That thought encouraged him to take another swig out of the half empty bottle. The truck was cold and the although the misty rain was tapering off, the moisture trickled down the windows like tears. John's own eyes were dry, having shed all his tears last night. He'd talked with Caleb for an hour or so about a tricky poltergeist job the younger hunter had been working. John was happy to be distracted, to offer his advice like everything was okay. Thinking about Caleb's hunt was the only thing that kept him from spiraling completely down into despair.

A soft tap on the window got his attention and Caleb opened the door and swung up into the passenger seat. The door thudded closed leaving the two men sitting in the dim silence.

"How's Sam?," John asked. He was ashamed that he couldn't be there for his boy, but at least Caleb was here to check on Sam. The younger hunter sighed.

"How do you think John?," Caleb said without any heat. "He's broken up. I've never seen a bond like those two have...er, had." Caleb was obviously uncomfortable as he corrected himself. John passed him the bottle and his friend took a long swallow before passing it back. "Sorry" he said, leaving that word and everything it meant hanging in the damp air. John just nodded and stared at the wet windshield.

"Sam's tough, a lot tougher than he seems. He'll be okay eventually." John wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, but Caleb looked politely skeptical.

"You gonna ask him to stay?" Caleb had some idea of the drama that had broken up the Winchesters last year, but he didn't know the cruel words that John had said to his younger son. The older hunter took another swallow from the bottle and wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

"Sam made it crystal clear. He doesn't want to have anything to do with hunting….or with me." That last part hurt to say out loud, but John was damned if he was going to lie about it. He knew that Dean had sacrificed and suffered to keep their little family together, often without a single word of praise or comfort from him. But despite that, John was pretty sure that Dean had loved him - as undeserving as he was. Sam though? Well, Sam was another matter. Somewhere along the line he'd lost his second son.

At first he'd been happy that Dean could provide his baby brother the kind of affection and comfort that, after Mary's death, John hadn't felt capable of. And then as he'd learned more about what really was out there, he'd been so afraid for his boys that he became obsessed with preparing them, with keeping them safe. John had been so caught up in his grief and fear and rage that he'd let Dean take over Sam's care, and Dean had become Sam's everything. His boys were so close, that it often felt like there was no room for him in their family. It had been easy with Dean, they had so much in common and Dean had seemed to like spending time with his old man, but with Sam everything was harder. John knew that he hadn't tried hard enough to connect with Sam. Which is why he was sitting out here in his truck like a coward instead of braving Sam's wrath and grief. Caleb interrupted his internal dialogue.

"I think you underestimate him, John. You're all Sam's got now - he might be angry, but he needs his Dad." John smiled bitterly at that. He didn't deserve to be Sam's Dad - the person who had truly been a father to Sammy was lying dead in the motel room in front of him. A demon may have broken his family when Mary was killed, but John had done an amazing job of blindly destroying the wreckage. Still, a portion of what Caleb had said, stuck. He might not be much of a father, but he was all that Sam had now. After a few moments of staring out the windshield, he pulled the cap from his pocket and screwed it onto the bottle, sliding the whisky and its promise of oblivion into the back seat.

"I'm gonna go check on Sam," John threw over his shoulder as he climbed out of the truck.

Walking towards Caleb's room, John wasn't sure what he was going to say. What he did know was that it was time to suck it up and face his younger son. If Sam needed to cry, or rant at him, or hell, throw a punch, then John would take it. It was what little he could give. With stealth built on years of practice, he quietly opened the door. The sight that met his eyes brought an unfamiliar soft smile to his face.

Sam had succumbed to his exhaustion and was curled up at the end of the bed. The leather coat that John had passed on to Dean years ago was held tightly in his arms. His son was 20 years old, but asleep, snuggled up with that old jacket, Sam looked like the small child John remembered from long ago. The one who still got excited when Daddy came home, the one who looked at him with such faith in his big hazel eyes, the one he'd shamefully ignored for so long.

With a delicate touch, John brushed a stray hair from Sam's face with his fingertips. The dried tear tracks on his son's face tugged at his heart strings. He longed to pull Sam into his arms and beg his forgiveness, but he knew it wouldn't be appreciated. He stood for a long minute watching Sam sleep. There wasn't much he could do for Sam, but for Dean he could do one last thing. He would give his eldest boy the hunter's funeral he so greatly deserved and hope that the two remaining Winchesters could take some small comfort from that.

xxxxxxx

Dean's first thought when he became aware was that he was cold, freezing in fact. The concrete floor was damp through the thin cotton of his boxers and he was shivering hard enough to rattle the chains that bound him. His head was pounding and Dean recognized the familiar nausea and ringing in his ears of a pretty good concussion. The shaking sure wasn't doing anything to help with those. At some point, he realized that he still had his eyes closed and forced them open. Mercifully the room where he was chained up was dark, lit only dimly by the feeble light coming from around the cracks of the steel door. As he became more awake, Dean was able to look around. There wasn't much to see. He was in the corner of a windowless room. The walls were made of corrugated sheet metal, but there wasn't really anything else to see. His arms were stretched above his head, chained to a single eye bolt welded into a wall. Racking his memory made his headache worse, but Dean vaguely remembered searching the warehouse for the witch when someone whacked him in the head from behind.

Dad! Thinking about the hunt made Dean remember that Dad was out there, probably looking for him right now. Urgently, he examined the room again looking for something to pick the locks around his wrists with, but the floor was completely bare except for some disgusting looking sludge by the door. Not even a loose nail within reach. He tugged experimentally on the length of chain holding him to the wall, but all that did was drive the shackles into the skin of his arms. He was just going to have to wait for his Dad to find him. His father was likely going to rip him a new one for allowing someone to get the jump on him, but Dean would worry about that later.

His watch was gone along with his boots and clothes, so there was no way to tell how long he had been out. Being almost naked made Dean feel vulnerable, but he tried to ignore the feeling and think about what he knew. Why would a powerful witch bother clocking him over the head anyway? Why not just throw a whammy at him? There must have been a second person here. Maybe the witch's partner or a slave? He had a fuzzy memory of the guy who took his clothes and the bastard had looked like him. Did that mean there was a shapeshifter around? He had to warn his Dad. Frantically he tugged on his chains, looking for any weakness, but all he got for his struggles was a trickle of blood down each arm. Chewing on his bottom lip, he forced himself to settle. He tucked his knees closer his body to preserve warmth, and rested his head on his knees. Dad would find him soon.

Despite the cold, Dean realized he must have drifted off again. Concussions were a bitch. When he woke up again, he was still freezing, but his nausea had died down so that was something. Unfortunately even without his watch, he could tell that hours had passed. Where was Dad? Then it occurred to Dean that if someone had managed to knock him out, that the evil hag or her friend could have gotten his father too. His anxiety level cranked up a notch. If Dad was tied up somewhere else, or... No. Dean pushed away that morbid thought, refusing to consider it. But, if Dad was captured too, it could be a while before anyone came looking for them. Dean wasn't 100% sure that Caleb or Pastor Jim knew exactly where they were. He was worried about his Dad, but his own situation wasn't so great either. The room was very cold, and hypothermia could become a concern if he was there too long. Luckily he was shivering, so he knew his body was still trying to keep him warm, but his legs and shoulders were getting numb from his lack of movement.

Trying hard to keep his throbbing head still, he awkwardly shifted position so that he was on his knees and could lean against the other wall that formed the corner. Oddly that wall was warmer than the other, as if there was a heat source on the other side, so he pressed himself against it as much as his chain allowed. He had faith in his Dad. He refused to think of his father injured or dead. No way would John Winchester let a witch get the best of him, partner or not. For a fleeting moment Dean wished Sam was here. But immediately he shoved that idea aside too. If there was one upside to this shit show of a situation it was that Sammy was safe and sound at school. It was one thing to worry that Dad was in trouble or hurt, but Sammy…as much as he missed his little brother, Dean was glad that he didn't have to worry about Sam's safety. Dean settled down against the wall as best as he could and waited. Either his father would find him and rescue him, or the witch would come back and he would find a way to force his way free - he hoped.


	7. Something Missing

When he woke up, Sam was groggy, and sore, his eyes swollen and red. He was embarrassed to discover that he had fallen asleep snuggled up to Dean's jacket like a toddler. He sat up and scrubbed a hand down his face and glanced around the room for his brother. Then like a landslide crashing down on him, he remembered. For a brief moment, he'd forgotten that his brother was dead. Horrified, Sam felt his breath catch in his chest. How could he have forgotten? What kind of a terrible person was he? Determined not to cry anymore, Sam rubbed his chest and waited until he had himself under control. What he really wanted to do was go back to sleep and hide from the pain that made it so hard to breathe. Instead, he was going to find Dad and Caleb and figure out what to do next. But first, he needed a quick shower. He smelled, and he'd been in these clothes for more than a day. Could it only have been yesterday when he was at Stanford? It seemed like so much more time had passed, but a quick look at his watch told him it was only mid-afternoon.

Since his bag was still in Brady's car, he had to go outside. He walked out to the parking lot. The misty wet morning had dried out, but it was cold, probably only a few degrees above freezing. There was thin ice skimming some of the puddles. Dad's truck was gone, but Caleb's Mustang was parked in front of the room. Sam pulled his gear from the Range Rover and went back to Caleb's room. He felt a little odd taking advantage of his friend's room, but there was no way he was going to shower in the same room as Dean's body.

Once clean and dry, Sam felt a bit more human. He stood staring at Dean's stuff sitting on the table. Other than the photos, there wasn't really anything he wanted, even that stupid leather jacket. The only possession that meant anything to him was the necklace he'd given to his brother that Christmas so long ago. The little horned pendant had become such a part of Dean that Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Dean without it. It meant a lot that over the years Dean seemed to treasure his small gift. He had regularly replaced the leather cord it was on to make sure it never broke and got lost. Maybe it was silly, but seeing the bronze face on his brother's chest had been a huge source of comfort during some dark times when Sam was growing up. The ugly charm wasn't sitting on the table, so it must still be around his neck. With a strange and sudden urgency, Sam had to get it. It was as if holding the pendant would make Dean a little less gone.

Sam used the key that had been left on the table to slip into the other room. It was oppressively quiet inside and Sam felt the irony. When Dean was alive, he was seldom quiet. When they had been younger, Dean had purposely annoyed Sam with his off key singing, rhythmic burping and any other unnecessary noise he could make - especially if Sam was trying to read. A smile ghosted across Sam's face for a moment before the heavy grief swamped him again. He hesitantly knelt down beside the bed, flipped back the sheet and took a long look at Dean. In all his memories of his big brother, Dean was full of life and energy, nothing like the waxy, rigid shell lying here. The pain rose up in his chest again, but he swallowed it down to settle like a rock in his stomach. With shaking fingers, Sam looked for the thin leather cord, but it wasn't there. He slid the sheet farther down, searching for the little bronze head, but there was only Dean's blood stained shirt. Replacing the sheet, Sam rocked back on his knees and had a terrible thought.

What if Dean had stopped wearing it? What if when he'd left for Stanford, Dean had thrown the little pendant away? A second layer of pain squeezed Sam's heart and tears sprang into his eyes again. He knew that his leaving had hurt his brother, but it hadn't occurred to him that Dean might be so angry that he would stop wearing the little horned face that, to Sam represented their bond as brothers. Still, it was possible, and the idea knocked the air out of his lungs. Standing up, Sam realized that he'd have to ask his father if he wanted an answer. Part of him was afraid to find out the truth, especially now that there was nothing he could do to mend his relationship with Dean. But part of him needed to know. He heard the rumble of an engine outside, so he quickly left the room.

Dad and Caleb pulled up in Dad's truck. He waited while the two older men climbed out. Dad looked tired and drawn and he was moving with an uncharacteristic heaviness. It seemed as if Dad was too weary to look at Sam, his eyes always on the ground. For a fleeting moment Sam felt sorry for his father. As much as he was hurting, he knew that Dad had to be hurting too, but then the familiar anger forced Sam to look away. Dean was dead because of Dad and Sam couldn't forgive that. Caleb looked somber and weary as he stepped down from the cab. He smiled wanly at Sam.

"Hey Sam, got some grub if you're hungry?" he said lightly shaking a large paper bag. Sam didn't think he'd ever feel hungry again, but he nodded and followed the two men to Caleb's room. If he was going to ask about Dean's necklace, this would be the best time to do so.

xxxxxxx

John sat staring at the burger sitting in front of him. The thought of eating frankly made his stomach churn, but he knew his body needed the fuel if he was going to get through the rest of this horrible day. Picking up the burger, he forced himself to take a bite and chew. The food in his mouth tasted like paste and he had to take a sip of his coffee to choke it down. Caleb was eating his own meal with his normal enthusiasm. The hunter had an appetite that rivaled Dean's. John swallowed hard. Every time he thought about Dean, it was as if his throat tightened and he couldn't breathe. He shot a quick glance at Sam. With his long fingers, Sam was picking the bits of chicken from his wrap sandwich. His hair was ridiculously long and hid his face from John, but it was just as well since he didn't think he could look Sam in the eye.

He and Caleb had spent most of the day building a pyre and in a few short hours, he was going to burn the body of his first born son. Putting down his burger, John lunged to his feet and made his way to the small bathroom. He could feel the sting of tears, but he refused to cry. He wanted to vomit, but he compelled his body to obey. Instead, he splashed some cool water on his face, watching blankly as it dripped from his chin into the sink. After a minute, he wiped his face on a bleach scented towel and got himself together, then went back to the table. He desperately wanted a beer, or 12, chased by the couple of bottles of whiskey he had stashed in his truck, but he couldn't bear to see Sam's look of disgust, so he just sat and stared unfocused out the dirty window.

"Dad?," Sam said hesitantly. Reluctantly, John turned his head in Sam's direction, but still unable to look at his son. Sam seemed to take that as acknowledgement because he cleared his throat.

"Do you have Dean's pendant?" Sam's voice shook a little with an odd combination of defiance and desperation. It made him sound like he had when he was a teenager. John risked a glance at Sam and saw how still his boy was. With one hand, Sam was holding his soda with a casual nonchalance, but the other hand was gripping the edge of the little table so hard his fingertips were white.

"No, I don't have it." John answered simply. The bronze face was such a part of Dean that he honestly had forgotten that it could come off. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Dean without it. Sam set his cup down and clasped both his hands in his lap.

"Was he still wearing it?" John frowned, thrown by how unsteady Sam sounded. Why would he ask that? Then, with a flash of insight, John realized what Sam had to be thinking - that Dean had stopped wearing the ugly thing because he was mad or hurt at his brother. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Sure, Dean had been crushed when Sam left, but he would never have taken that damn charm off. John struggled to find words to reassure his son, but although he opened his mouth, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. Caleb had been eating fries and watching their exchange, but then he swallowed and spoke up.

"Are you talking about that weird horned thingy? Dean never took that off." Caleb chuckled. "In fact, a couple of weeks ago he was telling me about this really hot redheaded waitress and…" Caleb glanced over at John and apparently had second thoughts about the story he was telling. "Uh, anyway, the boyfriend she failed to tell him about came home and Dean had to make a quick getaway out the second story window. He told me that he ended up having to circle the block in nothing but his boxers and that little bronze charm so that he could sneak back in and get his clothes." The younger hunter was laughing harder now, and John was happy to see Sam smile faintly too. Dean had avidly told that story more than once over the last few weeks, exaggerating the misadventure a little more each time for effect. It made John almost smile himself to think about it.

John walked through his pre-hunt memories. They seemed to be from a hundred years ago. And to be honest, he had been more concerned with checking his weapons and reviewing their research to look at what Dean had been wearing. But he remembered Dean tucking the amulet down his t-shirt before they had gotten out of the truck.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure he had it on when we left last night. It must have fallen off at the warehouse."

Although some of the tension had eased out of Sam's shoulders, the mood in the small room gradually grew more stifling. Caleb was done eating and was leaning back in his chair, yawning. John had taken another few bites of his burger, but it was cold and tasteless now and he gave it up as a lost cause. Sam had picked apart his sandwich and sat there fiddling with the wrapper. Suddenly John had to get out of the room and get some fresh air. He tossed the remains of his food into the garbage can and not trusting himself to say anything, walked outside.

This time of year, it got dark early, and the sun was low in the sky as he leaned against the rough brick of the motel. The fading light bouncing off the Impala caught John's eye, but be resolutely ignored it. It hurt too much to look at it. Dean had loved that car so much. If Sam wanted it, then it was his because there was no way John could drive it again. When he had bought it as a young man, he'd had an engagement ring in his pocket and a beautiful woman who loved him. But now, Mary was dead, their first born son was dead, and John, well in many ways he felt dead too. The car represented nothing but loss to him now.

John dragged a hand down his stubbled face. He felt a million years old, every muscle and bone aching with pain and grief. It had been 20 years since Mary had died, but it sometimes felt twice that long. The hunting life was hard, brutal and unforgiving, but at least he'd had his boys. But now he didn't and someone had to pay. John wasn't sure how, but he was going to keep fighting, after all he had little left to lose. He swore that he would spend the rest of his sorry life tracking down every last evil son of a bitch out there and get revenge for his family.

His dark vow, did nothing to lift his grief, but it did give him a sense of purpose. He pushed away from the wall and went to his truck. It was time to prepare Dean's body so that they could burn it and say their final goodbyes. Pulling some narrow rope and a newly purchased white sheet from his truck, John felt the heaviness of the last 20 years weigh down on him. As a soldier and then a hunter, John had seen too much horror to believe in happy endings. But, maybe, if there really was a Heaven, Dean would be with Mary.


	8. Seek

The night air was cold, but Sam didn't notice. He felt completely numb from something more painful than cold as he tenderly lifted the wrapped bundle that used to be his brother from the truck bed. His father and Caleb had prepared everything earlier, but they had waited for the cover of darkness to actually burn the body. They had built Dean's pyre a fair ways outside of town near White's Canyon. It was a beautiful spot and Sam was glad that they'd chosen someplace so peaceful to lay Dean to rest. He and Dad maneuvered Dean up onto the platform while Caleb doused the green wood with salt and gasoline. Then their friend stepped back respectfully, leaving the two Winchesters in front of the pyre. There was so much emotion coursing through him that Sam could only stand silently next to his father, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket against the chill.

His dad stood for a long minute, turning the silver lighter over and over in his hand until Sam finally glanced at his face. Dad was rigid beside him, his jaw set and teeth clenched hard. For once, Sam thought he could read the expression on his father's face in the faint moonlight. There was pain and anger, but also a horrible regret etched into every line. For a minute, he looked far older than his 50 years. But then Dad, cleared his throat, flicked the Zippo, and with a toss of his arm, lit the gasoline soaked wood. The fire roared to life and Sam's eyes were drawn back to Dean. This was it. Sam was never going to see his brother again.

He stood in silence until the flames began to lick at the sheet wrapped body. Then, despite his best efforts, something broke inside of him and tears flowed down Sam's face. Angrily he scrubbed his eyes on the shoulder of his jacket. This should never have happened. Damn right Dad should feel regret because it was his fault that Dean was dead. His brother had spent his entire, too-short life trying to make the man standing beside Sam happy. He remembered how Dean would practically beam at the tiniest praise from their father. A "good job, son," from Dad was worth any amount of effort, pain, or suffering for Dean. But it had always made Sam so angry. He had wanted a father who showed that he cared about his sons, who wanted them to be happy. Instead he had spent most of his life raging against a paranoid, stoic hunter, so absorbed in his mission of revenge that he barely seemed to notice that his children needed him. Thank God he'd had Dean. Except now Dean was gone.

Sam had never felt so alone in his life, not even when he left for school. As much as he wanted comfort, he knew his father wasn't the type, and he was too angry at the man to seek solace from him anyway. He wrapped his arms around himself. When he looked at his father again, sure enough, in the flickering light of the fire, Dad's mask had slid back into place. Hard and set like iron, it was as if he didn't even care that it was his son whose body was burning in front of him. His father stood, staring into the flames, not looking at Sam.

"You can have the Impala." Dad's rough words interrupted the silence. Sam seriously considered the offer. Dean had loved that car, and in many ways Sam had grown up in her, but, there was no place for the Impala at Stanford. Not only would it be a painful reminder of his loss each day, he couldn't afford it. His job barely covered his necessities, paying for parking, gas and all the other costs of owning a car, wasn't something he could swing. Still, he'd never forgive himself if Dad sold it, so maybe he could ask Bobby to take care of the Impala, at least until he graduated.

"I don't have any space for it at Stanford," Sam began, but Dad cut him off.

"You're going back to school?" Dad's tone was a mixture of incredulous and disappointed. The anger that had been simmering within Sam came back to a sudden boil. He turned to stare at his father as Dad looked into the flames.

"Of course!" Sam bit off the words.

"I need you here, Sam," was all Dad said, his voice tight, but it was like throwing gasoline on the flames of Sam's fury. He was unable to contain his rage and turned towards his father.

"Dean's body isn't even gone yet, but all you care about is the job, right?" Sam was aware of the tears that still streamed down his hot face, but was too furious to care. "What, you thought I'd come back to hunting? Like I'm some kind of replacement that you can call off the bench now that your star player is gone?" Sam was bellowing, hands flung out as he challenged his Dad.

"Sam!" Dad barked at him, disapproval radiating from every pore. But Sam was done. Hunting was all that mattered to his father, and Dad would be ready to move on in the morning like nothing had happened, like Dean wasn't dead. Nausea bubbled up in Sam's gut. He couldn't do it, he couldn't be near his father one minute longer. The man made him sick and he knew that if he didn't leave right now, he was going to do something he might regret.

"Go to Hell," he said with scathingly. Turning on his heel, Sam strode away from the fire towards Caleb and the vehicles. Caleb stepped up to meet him, but Sam just waved him away with a shake of his head.

"I can't be here right now," he said, a crack in his voice betraying his almost panicked need to escape. Caleb just nodded and pressed keys into his hand.

"Here, take my car."

With a grateful nod at his friend, Sam got into the black Mustang and put the key in the ignition. In the rearview mirror he could see his father as a black silhouette against the flames, rigid and solitary. He hadn't moved a muscle when Sam had walked away. Purposely casting his eyes forward, Sam gunned the engine and left the only living member of his family standing in the night.

xxxxxxx

Winnemucca wasn't really a very big town and Sam was able to find his way to the outskirts. After driving Caleb's Mustang around for a long while thinking, Sam decided that he needed to see the place where Dean had died. Maybe he'd even be able to find Dean's lost necklace. He knew that it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack because the abandoned warehouse was huge, but it gave him something to focus on. And there was no way he could go back to the motel right now and see his Dad. Right now, he felt like a dinghy, bobbing in a churning ocean of grief, anger and guilt that threatened to swamp him and drag him down. Sam needed a task, something to help him stay centered, to stay afloat. Even if it was ridiculous, the idea of finding the little bronze pendant gave him something to hope for when everything else seemed hopeless.

The warehouse was dark, the rear of the building lit only by a couple of hazy security lights. Sam parked the car in the gloom and rummaged around in Caleb's glove compartment until he found a flashlight. He also saw a small handgun, and after a second's pause, Sam checked that it was loaded, put the safety on and tucked it into his pocket. When he got out of the car, his gaze caught on a large discolored splotch in the dirt nearby. Tire tracks from a large pick-up truck confirmed that he was standing where his brother had died. Sam bowed his head and stared at the blood stain for a few moments, then heaving a deep sigh, he went in search of Dean's amulet.

The back door was open so he slipped inside and clicked on the flashlight casting the beam of light slowly across the floor. Back here the smell of smoke and ash was strong. This part of the warehouse was taken up by a set of offices and a larger open area that had been the scene of a recent fire. Sam sadly recognized his father's handiwork. There was nothing but ash and some melted pools of wax to show that the dark spot on the concrete floor had once been a witch. Moving out of the office area, Sam made his way to the vast open space of the warehouse proper. Caleb told him that Dean hadn't been with Dad when he was killed, so the pendant wasn't going to be back here.

Sam mentally marked off a grid and methodically began sweeping the floor of the warehouse, alert for the gleam of his flashlight on metal or anything out of the ordinary. There wasn't much here. A few giant, empty shelves, some broken crates and some big piles of cardboard that had broken free from their twine. But, Sam refused to give up. He needed to find that pendant and prove to himself...prove to Dean, that he would never forget him. He just had to find it.

In the center of the space was a dirty skylight that let in some light from the distant moon. He paused to stretch his back and neck, sore from looking down so intently. Now that he'd had some time to cool off, Sam realized that he hadn't checked in with either his Dad or Caleb for at least a few hours. He may be angry, but he didn't want them to worry, or worse, come looking for him. This was something he had to do alone. The warehouse had been oppressively silent save for the soft rustle of birds that were roosting far above in the rafters, but as Sam stood pulling out his phone, he realized he heard a faint noise.

The sound was a very muted, but constant buzz, like a fan or the hum of machinery. There wasn't anything left in the warehouse to make that kind of noise. Sam put his phone away and pulled out his borrowed gun, cautiously tracing the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from a distance, and became impossible to hear if he drifted from the center of the room. Alert for any danger, Sam pushed at one of the piles of cardboard and got an increase in sound for his efforts. Most of the cardboard was heavy and difficult to move, but eventually Sam pulled and discovered a section that moved freely. Under the cardboard was a metal hatch in the floor. Listening intently, Sam realized that the sound was coming from below. Tucking aside the gun for now, he searched with his fingertips and found an indent that he could use as a handle. With a last look around, Sam pulled up the door. It swung silently on recently oiled hinges to expose a dark opening with a runged ladder hugging one side of the shaft. The buzzing hum was much louder now that the door was open.

Using his flashlight, Sam could see that the bottom of the shaft lead to a corridor. There was no sign that his activity had drawn any attention, so he eased himself onto the ladder and warily made his way down to the concrete floor below. At the bottom, a weak light shone from around a bend in the metal hallway. That was where the sound was coming from. Sam replaced the flashlight with the gun and stealthily as possible, followed the noise. Rounding a corner, the corridor ended with two steel doors side by side. The one on the left was closed, but the right hand one was partially open, letting light and the clear sound of a fan spill out. With all his senses stretched and alert for danger, Sam carefully pushed the right hand door open wider with his tightly gripped gun.


	9. Plus One

It was obvious that someone had been living here for a while, but there was no one here now. A couple of utility lamps provided the light and there were some plastic crates serving as table and chair. A messy pile of blankets and sleeping bags on a mattress in one corner was obviously a bed. The source of the droning noise turned out to be a space heater, which was running full blast, warming the small space and it's corrugated metal walls. There was no place to hide, but he turned off the heater and checked out the rest of the room anyway. Other than some clothes, fast food wrappers and a couple of newspapers, there wasn't much to see. Sam went back out to the hallway. He frowned, rubbing a hand through his hair and across the back of his neck. Weird. He vaguely recalled Caleb saying that Dad and Dean had followed the witch here from Boise only a few days ago so who was the long term squatter? He was thinking that through when he spotted something on the floor in front of the other door.

Crouching down Sam picked up the black leather cord. Dean's bronze charm slid off the broken end and fell into his hand. Sam rubbed the face between his fingers. Had the witch brought it down here and then dropped it somehow? It didn't make any sense, but it was a relief that he had found it. Holding the amulet, feeling it dig a familiar pattern into his palm, Sam felt a rush of memories. When he was small, there were many nights, huddled together in dismal motel rooms, that he had clutched the little piece of metal. It had been a way to keep Dean close, and to feel safe in a world that he'd recently learned had monsters. Even when he was older, he would look for the horned pendant against his big brother's t-shirt. It reminded him that no matter how difficult things got, that Dean was there. But now, Dean wasn't. He was long gone, nothing but a pile of smoldering ash in the night. Sam closed his eyes against the pain that washed over him.

Lost in memories of his brother, Sam heard a soft clink. He whipped the gun out from the pocket where he'd stashed it, back on high alert. The noise had come from the second room. With a witch involved, anything could be behind that door. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he pulled on the handle, gun at the ready. Again, someone had obviously oiled the hinges because the heavy metal swung open with barely a sound. Sam shouldered his way into the room, gun first. The light filtering in from the next room wasn't strong enough to infiltrate the dark space, so Sam quickly dug out the flashlight with his other hand and flicked it on.

xxxxxxxx

Dean was still drifting in and out of awareness. He couldn't feel his shoulders or upper back muscles anymore, which was probably good considering how much agony they had been causing. His mouth was dry and sticky, his eyes were sandy and his head was pounding like a drum. All bad signs that pointed towards dehydration on top of his concussion. The room was still cold, but at least leaning on the warmer wall had helped calm the shaking in his body for now. If only he wasn't so tired. Dean fought to stay awake, but it was difficult in the dark. The tiny bit of light from around the door didn't illuminate much. He didn't know how long he had been chained up in the blackness, everything was a little fuzzy, and he was so tired.

Despite the pain, what hurt worse was that Dad hadn't come for him. He'd tried to find reasons and situations that might have kept his father from rescuing him, but there was really only one thing that would have stopped the relentless John Winchester. Dad had to be dead. Either the bastard that somehow got the drop on him, or the witch herself must have killed Dad. Dean felt the threat of tears, but he swallowed them down along with the lump of emotion in his parched throat. He couldn't waste what little moisture his body still had on grief. Leaning his aching head against the metal wall, Dean struggled to think in that hazy place between consciousness and unconsciousness.

There was a lot to think about. Like, what was the point of fighting to stay alive? With Dad gone, no one knew where he was. In a few days, he was going to be dead too. Sure, danger was part of the hunting life, and Dean knew that someday his number would be up. He just never imagined that he would go out this way, wasting away in the dark like some rat caught in a trap.

He found himself thinking about Cassie. For a brief time, when he'd met her he'd allowed himself to think about the possibility of something else, something more than hunting. It had been the first and only time he'd opened up to a girl, and it had been a stupid thing to do. He'd felt like such a fool when Cassie had laughed in his face and broke it off. But it had been nice, while it lasted, to think about family in a different way for the first time since Mom died.

Mom...well that was one more regret. He and Dad weren't going to be able to avenge her death and find the thing that had killed her now. The only upside of dying would be that he might get to see Mom again. If he did, he hoped that she would forgive him for failing her, for dying before stopping the monster that had killed her and destroyed their family. Maybe Dad would be in the afterlife too, and they could be a family again, like it was before Sammy was born.

Sam! That thought drove him out of the haze. He missed his brother terribly, and now he was never going to see Sammy again. It was gut wrenching to think about and once more, his eyes burned with tears. There was supposed to be more time. Time to bridge the distance that had grown between them, another chance to tell his brother how proud he was of him. Dean had dreamed of seeing Sam graduate and becoming a successful lawyer. Sam was so smart. And, although a family of his own might never have been in the cards for Dean, he had imagined Sam with a wife, and kids and a happy, comfortable life. Sam deserved to have everything Dean hadn't been able to give to him growing up. Would Sam ever wonder what happened to him? Miss him maybe? Who was going to look out for the kid now? Dean bowed his head - one more job he had failed at.

He'd drifted off again, but this time it was the absence of sound that woke him. There had been a low droning hum during his entire captivity, but now there was nothing but silence. Maybe the witch had come back, or the shapeshifter partner. Originally, he'd planned to find a way to attack whoever was there when the door opened, but he knew it was hopeless. He could barely move, hardly think. Still, ignoring the pain and stiffness in his muscles, he shifted his weight, trying to get in a more offensive position. It just wasn't in him to lay down and die without a fight.

Suddenly the door swung outward and the opening was blocked with a large shadow. The darkness had made his gritty eyes sensitive and he struggled to keep them open. Then with a searing pain, a flashlight was strobed across his face and Dean was forced to duck his head into his arm to avoid the blinding light.

"Dean?" Still coiled to strike, Dean felt a shiver of fear ripple through him. He had to be hallucinating and now was not the time. His brother wasn't here. It had to be the shifter. He shook his head trying to clear it, even while he kept his eyes averted and waited for the figure to come closer.

"Dean, it's me, Sam!" The voice certainly sounded like his younger brother, but Sam was safely at school. That son of a bitch was going to pay for impersonating Sam. "Oh my God, Dean" said the voice. It sounded so real, so full of emotion, that Dean forced himself to look at the person speaking. The light that had been piercing his eyes had dimmed and suddenly his brother was crouching in front of him.

"Sammy?" he croaked, barely able to get enough moisture in his mouth to say the name.

"Yeah, man, it's me." A hand gently cradled his neck. "Here, let's get you out of these." Sam came closer to work on picking the lock on his cuffs. The flashlight was tucked down his shirt which spared Dean's sensitive eyes. He was still so groggy that he could barely believe what he saw, but there was no mistaking it. Somehow Sam was here. He could feel the warmth radiating off of his brother as Sam leaned over him, soft flannel brushing against his face. Relief coursed through him, Sammy was here, he knew it was really him in away he couldn't explain. In another minute he felt the cold steel of the cuffs fall away and Sam helped him lower his arms. The pain flared to life with an intensity that took his breath away and Dean swayed against Sam's chest.

"Whoa, hold on, I got you." Something warm, that smelled like home was wrapped around his shoulders and Dean realized that Sam had shrugged out of his jacket and put it around him. Big hands helped pull the jacket onto his shoulders and then they began rubbing the feeling back into his arms.

"I thought you were dead," Sam said, the words cracking. Dean could almost feel emotion radiating from his brother then, with a muffled sob, Sam stopped and wrapped Dean in his long arms pulling him close. If Dean's body had the moisture to spare, he would have teared up at Sam's fierce hug, and if he could move his arms, they would be around Sam in return. They weren't a very touchy-feely family, but damn it felt good to be physically close to Sam after more than a year of being apart. Sam's hair was in his face, his brother's warm breath was on his neck, and was Sam crying?

"Are you okay?," Dean asked hoarsely into Sam's shoulder, allowing himself a moment of comfort from Sam's presence before bending back to try and see his brother's face. Sam huffed out a wet laugh, cleared his throat and smiled sappily back at him.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm fine."

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked, holding his breath until Sam answered.

"He's back at the motel, I think."

Dean slumped back into Sam's hold for a second in relief, relishing the feeling of safety. He had so many questions, but if Sam was here and Dad was alright, they could wait. Right now, Dean wanted to get off of his knees, get out of this room and figure out what the hell had happened. He pulled back again and tried to stand up, but his muscles refused to work properly and he couldn't stifle a small groan of pain.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam said, helping him lean back. Dean clutched weakly at Sam's arm.

"Get me up."

With Sam's help, he struggled to get to his feet with stiff legs and arms that were screaming in agony. Sam slid his own hands under Dean's shoulders, and helped pull him upright. His brother helped support his weight as fought the vertigo from the change in elevation. Dean was already exhausted from the effort of standing, but Sam seemed to realize how weak he was because he tucked Dean into his side and began to move them towards the door.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here."

xxxxxxxx

Sam could hardly believe that Dean was alive. He wanted to cry, or laugh, to do a jig, or some other girly thing that would make his big brother roll his eyes and call him Samantha. Finding Dean in that room was the last thing Sam expected, but he was so very, very grateful. It was a miracle. All his anger and grief seemed to evaporate. Somehow he had been given another chance to set things right with his brother. He sent a silent prayer of thanks skyward as he wrapped his arm around Dean's waist and began their slow walk back to the car.

At first it was all Dean could do to put one bare foot in front of the other, so Sam was mostly dragging him. But by the time they had made their way down the short hall to the ladder, Dean seemed a little steadier. He could slowly put his feet onto the rungs, but Dean's arms weren't working very well yet, so Sam had to support him from behind. Eventually Dean was able to crawl out of the hole onto the warehouse floor. Sam let him rest on a pile of cardboard until he'd caught his breath and then they began the seemingly endless trek through the building.

Dean was so dizzy and lightheaded that he had to rest several times. Sam wanted to hurry to get Dean to the car, get him warm and get some water into him. He was worried about a concussion based on the dried blood he could see in Dean's hair and how woozy he was. There was blood oozing from the cuts the cuffs had made on his wrists, and he needed to check Dean over for any other injuries. It would be faster to just pick Dean up, fireman style, but even in this state, Sam knew there was no way Dean would willingly let himself be carried by his little brother. So he let Dean set the pace and tried to be patient, grateful to have his brother alive and beside him.

Even in the warehouse, Sam could see their breath as they limped towards the door leading out. Dean was dressed only his boxers and Sam's jacket, and he was shivering. Once outside, Sam steered them around the blood stained ground and shoved Dean gently into the Mustang to get warm.

"Caleb's here?" Dean asked raggedly recognizing the car as Sam climbed in, started the engine and cranked the heater to high.

"Yeah, he let me borrow his car." Sam skipped over the fight he'd had with Dad before Caleb had offered him an escape route. Dean didn't need to know that right now, besides it wasn't anything new. Digging around in the back seat, he found a mostly clean blanket and tucked it around Dean before pointing the car towards the motel. As he drove, Sam kept turning his head to check on Dean who was burrowed into the blanket and leaning heavily against the passenger door. The shivering had died down but Sam was still deeply worried and chewed on his lip during the short drive back to the motel.

Sam parked the Mustang next to his brother's beloved Impala, and noticed that his father's truck wasn't in the lot. That was probably for the best right now. Dean needed some warm clothes, lots of fluids, some food and rest, not the third degree from Dad. Sam also wanted a better look at that bloody head wound. He ran around to help Dean who was struggling to push the door open. With a firm grip on Dean's biceps, Sam pulled him to his feet. Dean tried to get his weight underneath himself, but he couldn't seem to get his balance, so once again Sam put his arm around Dean and led him towards Dad's motel room door.

Propping Dean against his hip, Sam reached across and felt around for the key in the pocket of his jacket which Dean was still wearing.

"You gotta at least buy me dinner first, Sammy," Dean said in a scratchy and weak imitation of his usual smart alec self. Sam had to smile at that. Just a short time ago he thought he'd never hear his brother's voice again and here he was cracking jokes. Wrestling the door open, Sam maneuvered Dean out of the cold and onto the far bed. He ignored the one that had previously held the shrouded body. Thank God, there would be time later to figure out what had happened and exactly what they had laid upon that pyre. Dean was listing against the headboard. Sam tugged the covers free and held them as Dean slipped his bare legs into them with a soft sigh. Moving the pillows behind Dean's back, Sam helped him sit up a bit and then dug a bottle of water out of the mini fridge. He broke the seal then handed it to Dean who needed both hands to grip it.

"Small sips, Dean," Sam cautioned sitting on the side of the bed to monitor his brother. For once, Dean obeyed him and carefully drank a third of the bottle before setting it aside on the night table. Going to the bathroom, Sam wet a face cloth with some hot water and went back to the bed.

"Lemme check out your head and your arms, then I'll get you something warm to wear, Okay?" Sam pulled Dean forward so that he could see the bloody gash on his head. It didn't look too bad once he'd cleaned up the dried blood. No sign of infection and it wasn't bleeding anymore, so they could skip stitches. Dean's wrists were raw and abraded, but once Sam wiped up the blood from Dean's arms, he could see that they just needed a bit of antiseptic and gauze. He'd tackle that later, for now he wanted to get Dean warm.

"Since you seem to be tolerating the water, you should have a little more." He handed Dean back the bottle and tossed the cloth into the bathroom sink. Rummaging through Dean's duffel, Sam found fresh boxers, a clean t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants and a soft zip-up hoodie. Sam tossed a pair of socks on the pile too and brought the clothes back to the bed. "Here. Do you need some help or…" Dean cut him off with a sour look.

"I got it," he said in a stronger voice, already shrugging out of Sam's jacket with a wince. Standing there watching his brother get dressed seemed a little creepy, so Sam absently puttered around the small room, stripping the coverlet from the other bed and balling it up in the closet, putting some cups by the sink, and straightening the chairs.


	10. Familiar

Dean flopped back against the pillows that Sam had put behind him. Getting changed had taken all his energy and he lay there trying not to pant. The warm clothes felt good and he felt more like himself fully dressed. His arms ached as the feeling came back into the abused muscles, but he'd grab some Tylenol later. He was still trying to process the fact that Sam was here and that the kid had found him. Sam was busy tidying the room so Dean took the opportunity to take a good, long look at his brother. Sam looked good. He'd filled out a bit in the 15 months since Dean had last seen him up close. The kid had a healthy glow, not dark enough to call it a tan because, let's face it, Sam was definitely spending more time with his books than at the beach, but California had added some colour to his cheeks. Sam's hair was ridiculously shaggy, his bangs kept drifting into his eyes, but it suited him. Made him look like the rest of the college kids Dean had seen when he and Dad had swung by Palo Alto. They'd visited a number of times over the past year, but by mutual, unspoken agreement, they had kept their distance and made sure that Sammy didn't see them.

Sam must have felt Dean watching him, because he stopped puttering, and came back to perch on the edge of the bed.

"How are you doing?," Sam asked, hazel eyes staring at Dean with an intensity that would have been uncomfortable from anyone else.

"Better than I was," he said. The comment lacked the casual tone Dean had been going for, but it was the truth. His brother handed Dean the bottle of water again and watched as he drank another few swallows. Dean watched as Sam seemed to well up and start swallowing rapidly, a familiar sign that he was trying to keep it together. Sammy always was emotional and he hated to see his brother so upset. Ignoring his sore shoulder, he reached out a hand and patted Sam's closest arm.

"I'm gonna be fine, Sam," he said, hoping to reassure the kid. It didn't seem to work. Sam shook his shaggy head and flashed a weak smile.

"I know," he said thickly. "I'm just glad I found you."

Just then there was a knock on the door. Dean immediately reached for a weapon, but he didn't have his gun on him, and the weapons bag was across the room. He scowled when Sam nonchalantly walked over and opened the door without checking. It was a good thing Dad wasn't here because he would be pretty pissed at Sam's lack of caution.

xxxxxx

Sam opened the door part way. Caleb was standing there.

"Hey Sam. How you doing?" Sam should have expected for their friend to stop by. After all, Caleb had been nothing but kind to Sam since he'd arrived. Plus, he had to have noticed that his car was back. Sam intended to open the door wide and show their friend the miracle that was a living Dean. But oddly his grip tightened on the doorknob for a second. He trusted Caleb, but suddenly he felt oddly protective of his brother. Sam's lack of response seemed to make the older hunter feel awkward and he rocked back and forth on his heels.

"Uh, I saw that the car was back and I was gonna go grab some food, so I was wondering if I could get the keys?" Caleb sounded almost sheepish, and Sam realized how rude he was being.

"Of course. Uh, I should tell you…" Instead of words, Sam just let the door swing open so that Caleb could see Dean propped up in bed. It had been over a year since he had lived like a hunter, and Sam had learned to let go of some of the paranoia his father had drilled into him all his life. It wasn't needed at school. Which is probably why it never occurred to him to be worried about revealing Dean. But instead of shocked happiness or confused questions, Caleb swiftly pulled his gun and pointed it at Dean.

"What the Hell Sam!" he shouted as he moved into the room, blocking the exit and getting closer to the bed. Dean sat very still, open hands resting on the blankets, alert, but not reacting.

"Caleb, no! It's him, it's really him." Sam tried to position himself between the gun and his brother. Caleb kept his focus locked on Dean as he asked.

"Did you test him?"

Sam immediately felt stupid. He had known from the moment Dean had said his name that it was his brother chained up in that room. There was something so quintessentially Dean in the way he moved, spoke - hell even how he smelled. But Caleb didn't know that and Sam couldn't explain. Dean spared him from having to admit his lapse.

"We were just getting to that," Dean said calmly, even though his voice still sounded rough. "Sammy, get a silver knife." He pointed at the weapons bag with his chin, keeping his hands still. Sam automatically did as he was told, rummaging through the weapons until he found a silver dagger. Slowly showing it to Caleb, who still had Dean firmly in his sights, he moved over to the bed. Dean held out his forearm. Sam didn't want to cut his brother, but it seemed to be the only way to defuse the tense situation, so he made a small nick with the silver blade. Caleb watched intently and then, on impulse, Sam dragged it across his forearm too.

"See, neither of us is a shifter." Sam heaved a quiet sigh of relief when Caleb lowered his weapon and stumbled a bit closer to them.

"Dean, is that really you?" Caleb sunk onto the edge of the other bed looking shell shocked. "How is that possible?"

"Yeah, it's really me," Dean croaked. Sam tossed the knife back towards the weapons bag and pushed the water into Dean's hand again. He wadded up some tissue and pressed it against Dean's arm until the bleeding stopped. He sat beside his brother's knee, as eager as Caleb to understand what was going on.

"So, I think there was a shapeshifter working with the witch, because somebody clocked me from behind just as I walked into the warehouse. When I came to, someone who looked an awful lot like this handsome mug, was chaining me up and taking my stuff." Dean pointed to his own face as he talked and Caleb barked a short laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned. But I don't think that the witch was working with the shifter because it was the witch who stabbed him. She must have thought he was you because he taunted John about killing his partner and using the blood for a spell." Caleb explained with enthusiasm. Sam felt a flash of sympathy that Dad had gone through that. The three men sat puzzling over the odd circumstances.

"Before I found Dean, I saw a room in the basement of the warehouse where someone had been staying. It was pretty obvious that they'd been there a while." Sam offered the little information he knew. Dean frowned and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well it wasn't the witch staying there, 'cause she was in Boise last week and Pocatello before that. We've been following her trail and Dad figures she only got here on Sunday." Dean sounded tired, and Sam could see him struggling to put the clues together through his exhaustion and what was likely a concussion.

"Then the shifter had to be living in the warehouse before the witch moved in," Caleb speculated. Sam found he didn't care one way or the other. The only thing he cared about was that Dean was alive and safe beside him. Dean sagged back against the pillows. Caleb caught Sam's eye.

"Well, whatever happened, it's sure good to see you, Champ." He reached out and patted Dean's blanket covered knee. " I'm gonna go grab some food, anything you want?" As Caleb spoke, Sam picked up his jacket from the floor where Dean had dropped it. He fished out the keys to the Mustang and passed them over to their rightful owner.

"Cheeseburger, extra onions," Dean said heavily before closing his eyes and leaning further back into the pillows. "And some pie." Caleb and Sam exchanged a smile and Sam got up to walk the older man out of the room. They kept their voices low.

"Maybe you could get him some juice, and some soup or scrambled eggs or something. He hasn't eaten in a while." Sam knew Dean had likely gone for a day and half without food, and he didn't think Dean was quite ready for greasy red meat.

"You got it." Caleb reached out and squeezed Sam's arm companionably. "I'll bring back some food. Have you told your Dad yet?" When Sam shook his head, Caleb chuckled. "Wow, this is going to blow John's mind." Sam's smile disappeared at that. In the joy of finding Dean and taking care of him, he'd barely thought about their father.

"Where is Dad?" Sam was curious and a bit nervous about what had happened after his dramatic exit. The smile fell off of Caleb's face as he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"He watched the pyre burn down, then drove us back here. He never said a word, but once I got out of the truck, he took off again. I think he just wanted to be alone, you know?" Sam would have been annoyed at being dumped, but Caleb just sounded concerned. "You should give him a call. I know you and your Dad butt heads, but he's been through a lot and he should know about Dean." Caleb gave Sam a sympathetic look, then turned and walked towards the parked vehicles. Sam shook his head as he retreated back into the room, closing the door behind himself. Dad was probably in the corner of some dive bar, getting blackout drunk. It was their father's usual method of coping with emotion.

Turning back to the bed, Sam found Dean asleep. His face was lax and he looked peaceful, but it bothered Sam to see his brother so still. It was too much like the body he had grieved over. Of course, he told himself he was being silly, that Dean was right here, safe and mostly sound. Pulling one of the chairs closer to the bed in case Dean needed anything, he settled back to wait for Caleb to return. Silly or not, he found himself mesmerized by the soft rise and fall of Dean's chest as he slept.

At some point, Sam must have drifted off himself, because he found himself startled awake by the sound of the key at the door. His eyes went immediately to Dean who was still sleeping soundly, then went to the door. Caleb was trying to juggle some bags and a tray of drinks one handed, while he fumbled with the room key. Sam opened the door and took the tray from him. Just like Sam, Caleb's eyes went right to Dean and a smile crossed his face.

"I thought I might have imagined that he was back," Caleb said softly, putting the bags of food on the table. Sam had to agree, it felt surreal to have his brother back from the dead. Despite his gratitude and joy at having Dean back, a small part of him was almost frightened that there was some cosmic catch.

"Do you want to wake him up?" Caleb asked quietly.

"Yeah, he needs to eat and get some more fluids into him." Sam walked over to the bed as Caleb unloaded the food. "Dean," he said as he shook Dean's shoulder slightly and stepped back. He knew better than to be within swinging distance, but this time Dean merely blinked awake. Sam could see that he was a bit disoriented and crouched down into Dean's eye line so that his brother could see him.

"Sammy... hey, you okay?" Dean asked in a slurred voice as he sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Sam resisted rolling his eyes. It was so like Dean to check on Sam before anything else.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam huffed with a soft chuckle. "How are you doing?" Dean stretched a bit, wincing as he moved his arms. He still, didn't seem to have full range of motion, but his movement was a lot better. Sam could see the faint pain lines around Dean's eyes, but his brother smiled at him anyway.

"I'm good, but I gotta take a leak." Dean flipped back the covers and pushed to his feet. He swayed, and Sam hovered, ready to catch him, but Dean waved him off. "I got it," he said as he shuffled across the carpet in his socks. Sam watched carefully. Dean seemed better, obviously still in pain, despite what he had said, but he made it to the bathroom without falling. Once Dean had closed the door, Sam went and stood by it, listening carefully for any sound of distress. Glancing over, he saw Caleb smirking at him.

"I'll be right back," the hunter said as he stepped outside.

In short order, Sam heard the toilet flush and the water run. He beat a hasty retreat back to the small table and sat as if he'd been there the whole time. The bathroom door opened and Dean paused, leaning against the door frame, looking around the room.

Come on, you need to eat," Sam called. His brother made his way to the table, slowly but his walk seemed stable enough. Dean had barely sat down when Sam handed him a two Tylenol and a cup of apple juice. He made a face.

"I'd rather have a beer," Dean groused without any heat.

"Yeah, well not with a concussion. Here, have some soup." Sam put a styrofoam carton of soup in front of Dean who sniffed it appreciatively and picked up the plastic spoon. Considering it was the middle of the night, Sam had no idea where Caleb had got the food, but it smelled great. He unwrapped a sandwich for himself and took a bite, more interested in staring at Dean than in eating. His brother shot him an exasperated glare.

"Eat your damn sandwich, Sam," he said while still focused on his soup. Sam suppressed a wry smile and took another bite.

Caleb let himself back into the room as Sam chewed. He had Sam's bag in one hand.

"I thought you'd prefer to hang out here tonight," he said, putting Sam's stuff on the end of the second bed. Caleb sat at the table and pulled Dean's phone, watch, wallet and the keys for the Impala from his pockets, laying them on the table among the containers of food. "Here, I figured you'd want your stuff back Dean." Then the young hunter flipped open a container of fries and began to eat.

Dean dropped his spoon for the moment and put his watch on, tucking the keys and other items into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Thanks, man," he said. Dean snuck a hand out and grabbed a french fry, stuffing it into his mouth before Sam could say anything. He smirked at Sam then, and then with a false meekness, picked up his spoon and went back to his soup. Caleb laughed around a mouthful of fries.

"Guess you're feeling better." Sam just shook his head at the two of them, glad to see Dean more like his usual self.


	11. Normal

Caleb ate his meal and watched the Winchester brothers as they talked and laughed together. It was nice to see. A few weeks after Sam had left for school, Caleb had helped John and Dean with a hunt for a chupacabra. John had been his usual surly, taciturn self but Dean had been unnaturally quiet. When the hunt was over, he'd coaxed Dean out for a beer. After a few drinks, Dean had basically admitted that he wasn't doing so hot. The kid had been wrecked by the loss of his brother - he was super proud of Sammy, but in a dark place without him. At the time, Caleb had been worried enough to say something to Pastor Jim about it. But eventually, Dean seemed to even out. Now, seeing them together again, well there was no denying that the two had a very special bond. It made him think about calling his own brother. But not right now. It was late, and he was tired. It had been a long couple of days

"Well guys, I'm going call it a night." He stood and stretched, cracking the bones in his neck and laughing when Sam cringed at the noise. Picking up his jacket, he made his way to the door. "Sam, don't forget to call your Dad. G'night you two." Then he stepped into the night. It was freezing out, and although he was only a couple of rooms away, he hurried to get out of the cold. Once in his own room, he shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his boots. Stretching out on his bed, he pulled the phone over, resting it on his chest while he dialed. As the line rang, he put the phone by his hip and settled back into the pillows with the receiver.

"Hello?," said a gruff voice.

"Hey Bobby, it's Caleb." He had promised the old coot an update and he was pleased that he had good news to share considering the heartbreak he'd delivered the last time he'd called Singer.

"What's goin' on? Sam and John alright?," the grizzled hunter asked with some urgency.

"Yeah...well John's holed up somewhere, probably drinking, but Sammy's great." He suppressed a yawn.

"Right, and I just got voted prom queen. I know Sam's not fine, and ya wouldn't be calling in the middle of the night unless something was wrong." Bobby grumbled, his worry clear even across the phone line.

"Actually Bobby, I got good news." He paused dramatically. "Dean's alive." Caleb had to smile imagining the impact that bombshell was going to have on the grumpy older hunter. On the other end, he heard a muffled gasp and the squeak of a chair being sat in heavily.

"What? How…? What happened?" For a second Caleb felt bad. Bobby sounded so shocked he was afraid he was giving the guy a heart attack. "Well apparently no one knew that the witch set up shop in the same warehouse where a shapeshifter was already squatting." He quickly ran over what they knew or speculated and Bobby offered a few thoughts of his own. The old man's relief was tangible. Funny how Singer, who had a reputation for being a cranky bastard, had a soft spot for the Winchester boys.

A few minutes later he hung up and moved the phone back to the side table. It was a pleasant change to be the bearer of good news, but now all he wanted was a few hours of shuteye. Caleb rolled over, turned off the light, snuggled into the pillows and was asleep almost instantly.

xxxxxxxx

Sam had his elbow resting on the table, his head in his hand. He was exhausted, but marvelling at his living brother sitting in front of him seemed far more important than sleeping. Dean had perked up a bit after they ate, and once Caleb had headed to his own room, Sam had been filling him in on some of what he'd been doing since they'd last talked. It seemed weird to speak with his brother face to face about school and his studies. That life seemed so surreal and far away right now. Dean seemed interested, but it wasn't very long before he started to fade. It had been a rough few days for the both of them. Dean pushed back from the table and stood up gingerly.

"You look beat, Sammy. Why don't you hit the hay? I'm gonna grab a quick shower and then I'll get some sleep too." Not waiting for his response, Dean made his way slowly to the bathroom. He seemed to be much steadier on his feet than he had been earlier, but as soon as Dean closed the door, Sam went over and stood outside listening again. Other than a few muffled groans as Dean used sore arms, he sounded fine. The shower kicked on and once Sam was sure Dean wasn't going to pass out or something, he let out the breath he'd been holding and went over to the phone on the bedside table. He punched in Dad's number. Part of him didn't want to deal with Dad right now, but Sam wasn't so cruel as to let his father suffer any longer. The phone rang six times before clicking over to voicemail.

"Hey Dad, it's Sam. Uh, I found Dean. He's alive and he's okay!" Sam hoped Dad could hear the joy in the his voice, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. After all, what else mattered right now. "So, uh we're back at the motel." He felt a bit stupid as he hung up, but the overwhelming gratitude of having his brother back made every other discomfort unimportant. He went to his father's bag and pulled out the first aid kit to get some antibiotic ointment and the gauze ready. As he crouched down, his thigh felt the hard bite of Dean's pendant that he had shoved into his jean pocket. He had an idea. Reaching into a small outside pouch on Dean's bag, Sam pulled out a coil of leather cord.

Back at the table, Sam cut a length with his pocket knife, strung the bronze face onto the cord and tied it off tightly, the way he had seen Dean do many times over the years. Then he tucked the whole thing back into his pocket and returned the extra leather string to Dean's bag. The sound of the shower cut off and after a few more minutes, Dean came out, dressed in his sweats and t-shirt, wet hair making a damp patch on the soft cotton. Sam offered a hand, but Dean ignored it, instead falling loosely to sit on the edge of his bed. Sam sat across from him and held up the gauze.

"I wanna wrap your wrists before you go to sleep." Sam needed to make sure that Dean was okay before he'd be able to close his own eyes. His brother sighed with a huff.

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine." Dean deflected as usual, but this time, Sam couldn't let it go. The day had been too overwhelming and painful. He took a deep breath to try and find some control over the emotions that surged through him. He had to get Dean to understand.

"Look, man. A few hours ago, we burned your body. I thought you were dead. I thought that I'd never see you again and..." Sam had to stop as his voice cracked with emotion and his hand clenched around the roll of gauze. He'd never forget that crushing feeling, thinking that Dean, his big brother, the most important person in his entire life, was dead. Sam shook his bowed head, unable to find the words to express how that felt. "Just…just let me do this, Dean. Please?" He wasn't above begging.

xxxxxx

"Alright," Dean said quietly, unable to resist the broken plea. "But I'm fine Sammy," Dean argued out of habit, even as he held out his arm. The cuts on his wrists were practically nothing, but he knew if the roles were reversed that he'd be fussing far more than Sam was. Besides, he had some idea of how hard this must have been for his brother. After all, it had only been a couple of hours ago that he thought he'd never see Sammy again. He rested his right hand on one of Sam's knees and watched as the kid attentively applied some ointment before wrapping his wrist. Sam's shaggy bangs hid his eyes as he bent over his work, but his fingers were gentle and warm on Dean's hand.

Something in Dean's chest eased. Having Sam within arms reach felt like being able to breathe again. It seemed like forever since they'd just sat and hung out together. Even before he'd left for school, Sam had grown more independent and distant, either buried in his books or fighting with Dad. Dean had seen the end coming. He knew Sam wouldn't stay, there was very little that could stop his brother when he set his mind to something. Besides, he wanted Sammy to have everything he deserved and had worked so hard for. The kid was brilliant and amazing and almost more than anything, Dean wanted Sam to be happy. But knowing that his brother was leaving him behind, that he had to let Sammy go...well that had hurt in ways Dean didn't know how to deal with.

Switching arms, Sam efficiently wrapped his other wrist, carefully taping the gauze in place. Finished with his work, Sam looked up and their eyes met. Dean felt a swell of affection and love for his brother, and he found himself once again swallowing down a lump in his throat.

"Thanks, Sammy." Dean said, his voice sounded too thick to his own ears, but he had to get this out. "If you hadn't found me…" he let his words trail off and he broke the eye contact. If Sam kept looking at him that way, Dean was going to lose his cool completely. He cleared his throat and stared at his neatly bandaged arms, now held loosely in his lap.

"Of course," Sam said, his own voice low and soft. "Oh, by the way, I figured you might want this back." Dean glanced up to see Sam pull his necklace out of his pocket. He was happy to see the ugly little thing. He'd assumed that it had gone up in flames with the shifter who'd taken his clothes. Instead of handing it to him, Sam leaned forward and slipped the thin cord over his neck. The little weight against his chest actually felt like a weight lifted and Sam was smiling at him with damp eyes. Unless he wanted to end up crying like a jilted cheerleader on prom night, Dean had to break up this sappy moment. Clearing his throat he snatched the tv remote from the bedside table.

"Um, so...you wanna watch a movie?" He flicked on the TV and began flipping through the channels until he found an action flick he and Sam had seen probably a hundred times or more. Thankfully, Sam didn't answer, he merely kicked off his shoes, leaned back against the headboard, and stretched his legs out on the opposite bed. Dean did the same on his own bed, except he slid under the covers, nestling down into the pillows Sam had positioned earlier. His brother reached over with his long arm and hit the light switch, casting the room into darkness except for a crack of light from the bathroom and the blue glow from the TV.

"Just like old times, huh Sammy?," he asked, watching Sam instead of the TV. In seconds, exhaustion dragged him under and he was asleep before he heard Sam's answer.


	12. Dream and a Wish

After he'd dropped Caleb off at the motel, John had driven back to the site of the pyre. Caleb was as good a friend as John had nowadays, but he couldn't stomach the younger man's sympathy and fumbling attempts at compassion. He'd solemnly buried the ashes - all that remained of his eldest son, and then taken the half bottle of whiskey from the truck and sat beside Dean's final resting place. His back was against the trunk of a tree, the cold from the damp ground seeping into his dirty jeans. Beside him was the soft mound of dirt where he'd buried Dean's ashes. His left hand rested on the dirt while the right held the neck of the bottle. Despite the frigid night, regret burned in his gut as the alcohol burned his throat.

There were so many things he should have told Dean. Like how deeply sorry he was that he'd put so much responsibility on Dean's shoulders when he was just an innocent child. Or how much he appreciated the many things Dean had given up for their little family, sacrifices that he shouldn't have had to make. He knew that he should have told Dean just how proud he was of the smart, funny, kind man his son had grown to be. Not that John had much to do with that. He took another swig from the near empty bottle. Most importantly, he should have told Dean how fiercely he loved him. But now it was too late. John stroked the dirt with his finger tips. "I'm so sorry Dean," he whispered into the darkness.

The earth was cool and moist in his hand and the bark was rough and jagged against his head where he leaned back against the tree. His face was cold except for where the hot tears rolled down his cheeks. Dammit, he'd sworn he was done crying. Exhaustion dragged at him. He'd been up for almost 48 hour by now, but he struggled to stay awake. He had to make a plan of some kind, figure out what he was going to do next, but honestly at this moment, it didn't matter. All he wanted to do was sleep and never wake up. Dean was dead, Sam hated him and John had failed as a father. He had trouble remembering why he was fighting. His family was gone, so what what the point. The bottle he lifted to his lips was heavy, even as he drank the last swallow. It wasn't nearly enough, but there wasn't enough whiskey in the world to blot out his mistakes or let him forget his failures. The biting wind cut through his canvas jacket. Freezing to death here in the dirt might be a fitting end for him, but he couldn't do that to Sam - although he doubted his son would care.

With a final caress to the mound of dirt, he pushed himself up and staggered his way back to his truck. He got in and sighed. He should probably call Caleb and make sure Sam made it back to the motel okay. Digging the phone out of his pocket, he saw that the screen was dark. He'd forgotten to charge the damn thing, and he angrily tossed it onto the passenger seat. Leaning back he closed his eyes again, just for a minute so that he could gather enough energy to drive back to town.

John felt relaxed and comfortable, drifting in a peaceful haze. He slowly became aware of soft music, listening as it grew louder until he recognized the tune. It was one of Mary's favourites, "Someday Soon." Something about that was puzzling, but he found thinking about it was too much effort. After a few moments, John heard a voice beside him, humming along with the music. Ever so slowly, John opened his eyes, his curiosity driving him to turn his head.

"Mary," John breathed in awe. She was sitting beside him, beautiful blonde hair glowing in the darkness and her blue eyes shining at him full of life and love. Mary smiled at him, and reached out a gentle hand to caress his face.

"John, sweetheart," she said. Reaching up, he trapped her hand against his cheek, reveling in her tender touch. With shaking fingers he brushed back a stray lock of her hair, then he felt his breath catch in his throat. His face crumpled and he had to tear his eyes away from Mary's in shame, dropping his hands. How could he look his wife in the eye, knowing that he was responsible for the death of her beloved son.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," he said, with a sob, his heart aching. "I'm so, so, so sorry...it's my fault. Dean is dead and it's all my fault. He's dead Mary, and I don't know what to do." John felt something break deep inside of him, all his guilt and pain restricting his throat and his shoulders shaking as he wept. Slender arms surrounded him and pulled him close.

"Shhhh, it's going to be okay," Mary said. She was stroking his hair as he sobbed against her shoulder. Her skin was soft and her hair brushing against his face was like silk. He closed his eyes and inhaled her recognizable scent, the unique combination of strawberries, baby powder and soap that was always distinctly her. He clung to her small frame, as she comforted him and gradually he felt a stillness come over him.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered again, but her voice was faint. John could feel a warmth against his body and the glow of a bright light permeated his eyelids. Looking up Mary was disappearing into a bright, white light, a fond look on her face.

"No, Mary!" He reached out for her, and the light flared to impossible brightness, forcing him to look away.

It was the first rays of sunlight shining through the windshield that woke him. His face was pressed against the steering wheel, tear tracks drying on his skin. He sat up slowly, every muscle in his back and neck stiff and painful. Apparently his body had been unable to continue any longer without sleep, but he found he couldn't be upset at his unplanned rest. It had been a long while since he had dreamt so clearly of Mary. He put his face into his hands, trying to hold on to the precious remnants of the dream, but it faded like a beautiful sunset. The reprieve was over and the weight of the past few days settled back into his heart like a stone.

John scratched at his three day old beard and ground a dirty knuckle into his gritty eyes. The morning was frosty and the crisp air drove some of the fog from his brain. The need for caffeine and a bathroom were competing for attention and John glanced at his watch. It was almost 8:00. With a twist of the key, he started the engine of the truck. He'd find a place to get some coffee, go back to the motel and begin sorting through the wreckage of his life.

xxxxxxxx

The thin curtains did little to block out the early morning light, but Dean had been awake before the sun anyway. He felt better, his arms and shoulders were almost back to normal, and his headache was down to an easy to ignore ache. He'd slept better than he had in ages, in part because his brother was snoring softly in the bed next to his. Dean laid on his side, watching Sam sleep. God he'd missed the kid. Ever since Sam had left for school, Dean had felt...off balance, restless, like his skin was too tight. If he was honest with himself, he'd spent so much of his life focused on what his brother needed, that once Sam was gone, Dean didn't know what to focus on. It had taken him a long time to settle down and adjust to the new normal of just him and Dad. But now Sammy was back, and a spark of hope had burst to life deep in the secret part of his soul. Maybe they could be a family again, maybe this time, Sam would choose him.

With a soft grunt, Sam rolled over to face Dean. His eyes were still closed, but Dean could tell that his brother was mostly awake, just reluctant to let go of sleep.

"Stop staring at me, perv," Sam slurred, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. Dean chuckled at the familiar joke and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Leaning over he swatted Sam's blankets.

"Then get up, sleepyhead, I'm hungry," Dean teased. With that Sam stretched and shoved the covers back, sitting up across from him. He peered into Dean's face as he dragged a hand through his own messy mop of hair.

"Hey, how're you feeling?," Sam asked, dropping the banter. It was way too early to deal with Sam's earnest puppy dog expression, so Dean pushed to his feet and made his way to the mini fridge. Pulling out a bottle of water he cracked the seal and watched Sam stretch.

"I'm fine," he said before drinking a third of the bottle. Wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand, he felt the scrape of stubble. Sam was still staring at him with an assessing gaze and Dean huffed with frustration. "Seriously Sam, I'm fine." He wasn't going to let himself get frustrated at Sam's fussing. He was alive, Sammy was here, now if Dad would just come back, everything would be great. Instead of saying any of that, he dug out some cleanish clothes from his bag and went to use the bathroom. Pausing at the threshhold, he glanced at Sam over his shoulder.

"You did call Dad, right?" Sam nodded. "Alright, let's get ready, grab some breakfast and go find him." Sam opened his mouth to say something when there was a knock at the door. Walking over, Dean twitched aside the curtain. He could see Caleb standing outside, so he let the hunter in.

"Hey guys, sorry to bug you so early," Caleb said, obviously taking in the rumpled beds and the state of Sam's hair. Dean glanced at his watch. It was pushing 8:00 am, so it wasn't really that early, but Caleb seemed agitated.

"No problem, what's going on," Sam asked with concern, getting up to join Dean at the door.

"Nothing, it's just, uh, Travis called, apparently he needs help with a vamp nest outside of Provo and I thought I'd go lend him a hand. But, if you guys need anything…" Caleb said a bit sheepishly. Dean realized that Caleb felt guilty about about leaving them. Hell, he didn't need a babysitter. In fact, he wanted to volunteer to go with him, but he was getting anxious about their father. He'd expected Dad to show up some time during the night after last call, but his continued absence this far into the morning had him getting worried.

"Thanks but," Dean said, "we're good. Gonna get cleaned up and go find Dad. Maybe we'll head your way afterwards." One glance at Sam told him that there was a conversation brewing about his answer, but for now Dean kept his focus on Caleb. The older man nodded and with a few words of farewell, they watched their friend, climb into the Mustang and drive away.

Before Dean could get back to the bathroom and close the door, Sam spoke up.

"Dean, we need to talk." Judging by Sam's tone, Dean definitely didn't want to have the conversation the his brother was planning.

"We did talk, Sam," he said with a sigh as Sam shot him a pained look. "We will talk, but right now I gotta take a leak. I'll be out in a few." Dean felt bad at essentially closing the door in Sam's face, but a man can only take so much before his first cup of coffee.


	13. Ram Men

The heat from the shower felt good, and Sam felt himself relaxing. His brother had taken the news that he was heading back to school better than he'd thought. When he'd asked Dean to come with him, he'd known that the answer would be no. As much as he would love to have Dean with him, safe and happy, he didn't think Dean would fit in Palo Alto. And, if he was truly honest, part of him was almost glad. He'd built a life at school and for the first time, he had an identity that was his own. He was Sam Winchester, not Dean's kid brother or John's youngest son. He loved his family, but it was freeing in a way to be able to think about what he wanted first. Sam owed it to Dad to help find him and drag him back from whatever bender he'd been on, but then he'd go back to school and get back on track for his future - one that didn't include hunting ever again.

Sam shut the shower off and stepped out. Grabbing a towel, he dried off, rubbing fiercely at his hair, when he caught the sound of voices. Who was Dean talking to? He turned his head towards the door and made out the low rumble of his father's voice. Good, he was glad Dad was back. Sam was relieved and he was sure that Dean was doubly so. He was quickly pulling on his clothes, when he heard it. Dean's brisk "Yes sir." Unbelievable. His anger flashed to life and Sam had to stop and grip the sink so that he didn't slam open the door and storm out. Only a few hours ago, Dad had thought his son was dead, yet here he was ordering Dean around. Typical. He tried for a calming breath before stepping into the room

xxxxxxx

John heard the bathroom door open behind him and turned around, the remnants of the smile still on his face. Sam's damp hair was swept back from his face revealing his stern expression and John felt his smile disappear. His son looked annoyed. He'd expected Sam to be overjoyed and for a second he wished he hadn't sent Dean away. He never could understand Sam's moods, the way his brother could. Sam said nothing, merely went over to the rumpled bed to sit and pull on his socks and boots. All of John's good intentions skittered away and he knew before either of them said a word, that this conversation wasn't going to go well. He picked up his coffee from the table and took a sip, watching as Sam began to gather this things.

"Hey Sam," he said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Hey Dad, glad you found your way back." John didn't like the thinly disguised jab, but tried to ignore it. Sam refused to meet his eyes as he ducked back into the bathroom to get his shaving kit. With a suppressed sigh, John sat at the table and scratched a thumb across the rim of his coffee.

"You found Dean?" He already knew the answer, but he was struggling to find some way to get Sam to talk.

"Yup, but you already saw him didn't you?" Now Sam's tone was just short of belligerent and John was getting irritated.

"Yeah, I did. I would have thought you'd be happy that your brother's alive." Sam huffed at that and stopped packing long enough to turn towards the table.

"Of course I'm happy. I'm thrilled, I just wish…" Sam started, his voice harsh, but he obviously thought better about what he was going to say because he bit short his words. With a sour look he went back to stuffing his things into his bag.

"You wish what, Sam?" John was done with the disrespect. If Sam had something to say, then he should just say it. Surprisingly Sam stilled, his shoulders slumping as he sat on the end of the bed.

"Nothing, it's...it's just been nice to see Dean again."

A small part of John was hurt that Sam didn't include him in the "nice to see" part, but he supposed he deserved that.

"So why don't you stay?" Those were not the words that John expected to say. It reflected his own wish, that he could have both his boys back together, where they could be safe and where they could keep an eye out for each other. But obviously it was the wrong thing to say because Sam barked a bitter laugh.

"Oh you'd like that wouldn't you. Get me back under your thumb again." Sam's acidic tone drove John from irritated to angry. The damn kid was always finding the worst in everything.

"Jesus Sam, what the hell?," John snapped back. "What's so awful about wanting to be a family again?"

Sam stood and spun to shout at him, practically crackling with anger.

"Nothing, but you don't want a family, you want me to fall in line so that you can order me around again. Well maybe that's okay for Dean, but not for me."

The intensity of Sam's words stung more than he wanted to admit and John found himself shouting back.

"Stop acting like a selfish child. All I've ever wanted is to keep you and your brother safe." John found himself face to face with Sam.

"Oh right, safe...that's a load of crap!" Sam's arms were flung out to the side and his chest was heaving. "Safe isn't digging graves or hunting monsters or getting jumped by a shapeshifter, Dad. It's only a matter of time before you really do get Dean killed, and I'm not going to stick around to watch it happen."

John found himself jerking back as if he'd been struck. Did Sam really have such a low opinion of him? Was he really pushing Dean into risking his life? All the guilt he'd been feeling earlier flooded back and he felt suddenly nauseated. He had to get out of this room before he lost it. Yesterday, he'd packed his own bag thinking that he'd be leaving solo today after putting Dean's soul to rest. Now that he knew Dean was alive, he hadn't expected to be leaving this room by himself, but that's how it had to be. Slowly he brushed by his son and picked up his gear. With his hand on the door knob, he paused, he never got to tell Sam how proud he was of him, but he doubted that his praise meant much anyway. Turning the knob, he stepped out into the parking lot and let the door swing closed behind him.

xxxxxxx

Led Zeppelin was thrumming through the speakers as Dean swung the Impala into the motel parking lot. He had a slightly greasy bag of breakfast sandwiches on the seat beside him and the smell of bacon filled the car. Pulling up, he saw Dad toss his duffel into the cab of his truck and he frowned. Dad was moving with the clipped efficiency he used when he was angry or upset. Pushing the door open with a soft squeal, Dean stepped out of the car, bag in hand. Dad saw him, but swung into the truck anyway, rolling down the window as he started the powerful engine.

"Hey Dad, what's going on?," Dean asked, raising his voice to be heard over the engine. Dad shot him a look, and Dean knew in his gut that something had happened that Dad didn't want to talk about.

"Nothing, Dean. I'm going to go ahead and meet Caleb. I'll call you with instructions." And with that, Dad put the truck in drive and pulled out. Dean watched the black vehicle for a moment and tried not to feel hurt. It had barely been half an hour since Dad had hugged him with tears in his eyes. Now, his father was moving on, leaving Dean behind to follow like a bad dog. He shook his head and squared his shoulders. Dad had his reasons. With his thoughts still on his father's swift departure, Dean knocked on the door. Sam opened it so roughly, it practically bounced off the wall and slammed into him. Ah, that explained Dad's behaviour. He blocked the rebounding door with his shoulder and, taking and releasing a deep breath, stepped into the room.

Sam was pacing the small space at the end of the beds, his rage clearly on full boil. Dean knew that any question he asked was going to start a fight, so instead he sat at the table and laid out two breakfast sandwiches next to the cooling coffee. Dad's cup sat barely touched, but Dean pushed it aside for now, digging napkins out of the paper bag and putting one beside the juice he'd gotten for Sam. Dean had just unwrapped his food and taken a first bite when Sam flopped into the chair across from him with a giant sigh of irritation.

"Where's Dad?," Sam asked, opening his coffee and taking a sip.

Dean swallowed and assessed his brother. He didn't want to walk into a loaded question.

"He left. He'll call me with instructions later." Dean took another bite, hoping that his answer wasn't going to set Sam off. But no such luck. Sam snorted and muttered loudly.

"Typical."

Dean couldn't resist a sigh of his own. So far this morning hadn't exactly been going his way. He found himself feeling defensive and a little tired of all the drama, so he focused on his food.

"I mean aren't you mad?" Sam thumped his coffee down so hard, he slopped some onto the table. Dean pushed a stray napkin into the mess.

"C'mon Sam. What's your problem?." Dean was getting pissed now, but Sam was just getting started.

"My problem? Dad thought you were dead 12 hours ago, but now he can't even be bothered to stick around for breakfast." Sam had raised his voice again and Dean didn't appreciate getting shouted at. "This is why you should come back with me to Palo Alto." Sam began to pace again. Dean threw down the remnants of his breakfast, his appetite completely gone.

"Sam, I told you. I can't do that."

"Yes you can, Dean! Why do you let him order you around like that? Why don't you stand up for yourself?"

"Jesus, Sam! He's our Dad! It's called being a good son." Dean was so fed up that he ignored the flash of hurt that crossed Sam's face. He sure as hell didn't need a lecture from Sam about following orders.

"Well I'm done asking how high, every time he tells me to jump." Sam crossed his arms across his chest with a pout that in other circumstances would have made Dean smile. Right now, he wanted to knock it off his brother's face with a punch.

"No, you're right." Sarcasm dripped from Dean's words. "You don't follow orders. You proved that by running away to school. At least Dad's been here the past year."

"I didn't ditch you, I went to school! Can't you see that this is my shot to have a normal life?" Dean knew that Sam wasn't trying to hurt him, but his words cut deep. Dean was tired of dealing with this crap and he let a little of his own pain creep into his next words.

"You think you're too good for this family. None of this would have happened if you'd been here to have my back like you're supposed to!" Even as he said the harsh words, Dean knew he'd regret them later, but right now...it just felt good to lash out and for once give as good as he got.

"Oh, so this is my fault?," Sam roared. "I never asked for this life, I never asked to be a hunter. Is it so wrong to want a life without monsters? - a life where I can do something that actually matters?"

Sam's words hit hard and Dean felt the air rush out of his lungs as if he'd been punched. Basically Sam had just told him that Dean's entire life didn't matter. After everything he had sacrificed, after everything he'd done for Sam, his brother had decided that Dean's life was meaningless. Dean sat down heavily.

"You mean a life without us." Dean spoke quietly, wondering how the kid he'd practically raised could turn on him like this. What he wanted to do was slam a fist into the wall, or smash something. Anything to lessen the hurt he felt right now. Instead he tightened his fist around a wad of napkins and gritted his teeth. "Well if you that's how you feel, why don't you go back to your fancy school and your fancy friends and your nice new normal life?"

For a moment the room was quiet. Sam had turned to look at him when he'd spoken, but Dean kept his expression hard, even when his brother recoiled slightly from his look. A myriad of emotions chased each other across Sam's face - hurt, guilt, sorrow, but anger won out. With nostrils flaring, and a flurry of movement Sam viciously grabbed his jacket and his bag.

"Fine, I will!" Sam shouted as he flung the door open, but paused as if waiting for Dean to do something. Dean should have backed down, should have apologized or said something to stop his brother. But he was too angry and instead he shouted back.

"Fine, go! I won't bother you again."

With that, Sam stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Dean could hear the roar of the Range Rover and a squeal of tires as Sam peeled out of the lot. Temper raging, Dean paced the small space. He tossed the chair he'd been sitting in, watching it clatter against the wall. He kicked his duffel across the room, then drove a fist into the flimsy wooden door of the bathroom. The cheap veneer splintered, driving shards of wood into his knuckles, but he was too mad to feel it. Finally he threw the bedside lamp, and the smash of glass was momentarily satisfying before the fury drained away. He sunk to the side of the bed, his pulse still pounding in his head. The room was eerily quiet now. He was alone - again.

For a brief moment, Dean had thought he could have his family back, but he was an idiot. All Dean had was the sharp sting of his knuckles, the car outside and a mountain of regret. He felt the prickle of tears and he forced himself to calm down, dragging his uninjured hand through his hair to rub the back of his neck. He sat there for a long while, the sad wreckage of the motel room at his feet. Then taking a deep breath, he gathered up his stuff and anything Dad had left behind. He tidying up as best he could, leaving an extra hundred bucks to cover the damage and loaded his gear into the Impala. Sliding in behind the wheel Dean felt the leather seat welcome him.

"At least you love me, Baby," he thought as the turned the key and brought the powerful engine to life. He pointed the car towards Provo and let the open road comfort him.

xx Epilogue xx

Dean sat outside Sam's apartment, the car hidden in shadow. He hadn't seen or talked to his brother since that night two years ago in Winnemucca. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about the last time he and Sam had been together. At the time, he'd been so hurt and angry, but now...he just missed Sam. Chewing on his lower lip, Dean debated his next course of action. On his way here, he had driven passed a number of Halloween parties. The costume clad college kids he'd seen seemed so carefree and happy. Maybe, he should just drive on out of here and let Sam keep his normal, apple pie life. But to be honest, Dean was starting to feel a little desperate. Dad had been gone without a word for three weeks, and now this creepy voicemail...he was afraid that Dad was in trouble, or worse. Dean closed his eyes and bounced his head lightly against the headrest for a minute, then made his decision. He needed his brother, needed to make sure that he was safe. Opening the car door he straightened his shoulders, and went to break into Sam's apartment.


	14. Reunion

Sam sat for a moment, staring at the closed bathroom door before dropping his head into his hands. His thoughts were bouncing around his head like a ping pong ball. Dean was alive, so he should feel happy. And he was. He was terribly grateful and happy that he hadn't lost his brother forever, but he was also worried.

He hated to admit it, but waking up in a crappy motel room felt as familiar and comfortable as his favorite pair of jeans, and that scared him. It would be so easy to slide back into the life he had fought so hard to escape. Being around Dean reminded him of just how much he missed his brother. Leaving Dean had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he knew in his gut that he didn't belong here - that he wanted more from life than hunting. Last night he'd called Brady to let him know that he'd be back in Palo Alto tonight. It was time for him to return to his real world. He wasn't looking forward to having that conversation with Dean.

A sudden spark of hope flared in his chest. Maybe now, after this near death experience, Sam could convince Dean to come to California with him. He could find a job, and they could live a normal, safe, life together. For a second, Sam allowed himself to dream, to imagine having his big brother around full time, no danger, no guns, no monsters. Then he squashed that idea down. There was no way Dean was going to leave their father.

Despite his erratic thoughts, Sam realized that he hadn't heard from Dad. Digging through his bag, he found some clean clothes of his own, but put them aside to check his phone. There was no response from their Dad. Going over to the window, he checked the almost empty parking lot, but the only vehicles he recognized were the Range Rover and the Impala.

He was starting to get concerned that they hadn't heard from him. As much as he believed that their father was drinking himself into oblivion somewhere, he also knew that Dad was in a bad place. A thought bounced into Sam's brain as he chewed on his bottom lip. There was no way the tough, give no quarter, show no weakness, John Winchester would do something stupid, something…permanent. He mulled it over, then pushed aside the somber worry. That would be way out of character for Dad. Still, Sam would be lying if he pretended he wasn't starting to get anxious.

The snick of the bathroom door opening brought Sam out of his head. Dean emerged clean shaven and dressed in his usual uniform of jeans, t-shirt and flannel. Rather than return to the bed, Dean busied himself tucking away his dirty clothes and organizing his duffel. Sam had to hide a smile. It was obvious Dean wasn't looking forward to their talk.

"Dean?," he called softly. Dean's hands stilled and he took a breath, as if bracing himself, then he looked up but his eyes darted away to avoid Sam's steady gaze.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I need to get back to school." Sam said, keeping his voice soft. Dean exhaled slowly and sat at the end of the bed, back towards Sam.

"I know," was all he said, tension visible in his shoulders and Sam stared at Dean's back.

"You could come with me this time." He blurted that part out and now words that he hadn't intended to say began spilling out of his mouth. "We could rent an apartment off campus. I could pick up more hours at work and you could get a job or something…"

"I have a job, Sammy." Dean's voice was stronger than before as he cut Sam off. He turned slightly to look at Sam over his shoulder.

"I know Dean, but…just think about it. Great weather, all those pretty college girls, no more monsters or blood or…"

"No!" Dean cut him off firmly, then sighed. "Look Sam, that sounds nice, it really does. But it sounds like your life, not mine." Dean had turned to face him now, his expression a mix of sorrow and a plea for understanding. Sam felt a pang of rejection and in an effort to hide his hurt feelings, turned to grab his clothes from where he'd laid them on the bed.

"Sam, I'm good at hunting. And sure, it can be dangerous, but I help people. What I do matters. Besides," Dean continued, "I need to be here to watch Dad's back."

"Oh, like he was watching yours when a shapeshifter took you out?" Sam's anger flared hot and the sarcastic reply was out of his mouth before he had time to suppress it. Dean's eyes hardened at that. The flame of Sam's outrage, faded as quickly as it had come, and Sam huffed out a deep sigh.

"Sorry, Dean." Sam didn't want to fight. He was tired of being at odds with everyone he cared about, especially since he'd almost lost his brother. He picked at the clothes in his hands. "Look, I'm gonna grab a quick shower, and then let's go find Dad. Okay?" He stood and took a few steps towards the bathroom, waiting for Dean's reply before going in.

"Sure Sammy." The relief in Dean's voice made Sam sad. He should have known that Dean was never going to leave Dad. Too much of his identity was tied up in being their father's good little soldier. He gently closed the door behind him, wishing things could be different.

xxxxxxxx

John pulled into the motel parking lot. He'd picked up coffee for Sam and Caleb. Of course, it was more than possible that Sam had left to go back to Stanford already, but he really hoped he was still around. Thinking about all the regrets he had, all the things he should have said to Dean when he was alive, had John thinking about Sam as well. While the boys were growing up, he'd seen all the time Sam spent studying as unimportant, a distraction from their mission. But after he'd had to some time to think about it, he was so proud of Sam and what he'd achieved. Maybe it was time he told his son that.

He noticed that Caleb's Mustang was gone, but the beautiful Range Rover Sam had borrowed for the drive here was still in the lot, so John breathed a sigh of relief. There was still time to try and mend the rift between him and Sam, although he felt the first thrum of worry. Did Sam not come back last night...was he okay? He parked the truck and climbed out, the tray of coffee in one hand. First he knocked on Caleb's door, but there was no answer. He shoved down his worry. Sam and Caleb could be out getting some breakfast, or both men could be in his room for some reason. He walked the short distance and stopped in front of his door. Rather than dig out the key one-handed, he lifted his hand to knock.

The door swung open and Dean was standing there. With reflexes honed by a life of hunting, John pulled out his gun and leveled it at whatever was impersonating his dead son. What the hell!

"Dad! It's really me." Green eyes sparkled as the replica grinned, reached out and carefully took the coffee out of his hands and placed it on the table inside the room. John's heart leapt with joy, even as his head screamed caution. He kept his gun pointed, even though the fake Dean seemed relaxed, almost happy, and moved farther into the room. John followed him in, eyes quickly scanning for Sam or Caleb.

The monster strolled over to the corner and telegraphing his movements, picked up a silver knife from where it had slid out of their weapon's bag. John firmed his grip on the gun, but "Dean" just dragged the knife against his forearm, drawing blood beneath a similar looking cut. Next, he picked up a canister of salt and sprinkled some on his bare arm before coming closer to show John.

"See, Dad not a shifter or a monster."

"Dean?," John breathed still hesitant to believe his eyes. "How is this possible?"

"Best we can figure, a shapeshifter was already in the warehouse. It took me out, and then the witch killed him thinking it was me. Sam found me last night." His son's cocky smirk was undeniable and John finally lowered his weapon. Happiness surged through him so hard, his knees felt weak. He closed the short distance between them and hauled Dean into his arms.

"Thank God," John said, too grateful to care about the quiver in his voice. He closed his eyes as he hugged his son tightly. Dean was alive! He squeezed a little harder and sent a silent prayer of thanks to Mary. He pulled back after a long moment and held Dean at arms length, tears in his eyes. With practiced ease, he looked Dean over for injury, seeing only the gauze wrapped wrists.

"Are you hurt?" Much to his chagrin, John's voice was higher than usual and still unsteady, but Dean just smiled fondly at him and reached up to put his hands on John's arms.

"Nothing to worry about, just a little bump on the head, but Sammy fixed me up." The smile faded a bit. "I'm sorry Dad, I should have been more careful. I let the shifter catch me off guard." Dean hung his head, but John just shook him gently before reluctantly letting him go. He turned and sat down at the table, still feeling a bit wobbly from the shock. Dean helped himself to a coffee and sat down across from him.

"Hey, it's not your fault, Dean. I never thought to check the warehouse before we went. I'm just glad that Sam found you." John took a deep breath and let it out, trying to get his emotions under control. He took a cup for himself and looked around the room briefly, he could hear the water running in the bathroom.

"Where are Sam and Caleb?"

"Sam's in the shower, and Travis called, so Caleb left for a vamp hunt. Maybe later we should head that direction, see if they need any help?" Dean seemed almost eager to get back on the road, and to be honest, John would love to put this town and it's horrible memories in the rearview mirror.

"What about Sam?," John said, almost afraid to ask. Dean frowned slightly, then shrugged with false nonchalance.

"Sammy's got to head back to school." He could tell that Sam leaving was painful for Dean. Hell, John still wanted a chance to mend some fences with the kid before Sam left again. But he wouldn't be able to do that with Dean around. The sound of the shower ended. He was almost afraid to let Dean out of his sight again, but he needed a moment with Sam. John cleared his throat as he pulled out his wallet and handed Dean some money.

"Look, go pick up some breakfast for us. Then you pack your crap, and we'll hit the road. I'm sure Caleb and Travis could use a hand, and you've been lounging around here too long." He said briskly with a smile to soften the order.

"Yes sir!" Dean said as he fished his car keys out of his pocket. With a jaunty half salute, he let himself out of the room. John watched as he practically bounded to the Impala. After a delicate stroke to her metal hood, Dean climbed in, revved the engine and sped out of the parking lot. John had to chuckle, at Dean's enthusiasm. He had no idea why he was given a second chance with his sons, but we didn't want to waste it. Thanks goodness his eldest was so even keeled, he and Dean would find their way, but he had no idea what he was going to say to Sam. John vowed to try as he heard the bathroom door open behind him.


End file.
